


Little by Little

by Iolre



Series: A Lonely September [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Instability, Flashbacks, Fluff, History of domestic violence, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of past prostitution, PTSD, mentions of cutting, mentions of drug use, mentions of past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that John and Sherlock have left Asylum, they’re forced to face the real world, a reality Sherlock has never faced unaided and one John is resigned to. As they fight to find a balance between the life they have to live to survive and each other, they battle to come to terms with their pasts so they can build a future together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't You Be Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> So...here's chapter 1 of part two! As usual, please read the warnings - there's a lot of triggery material in this series and I really don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. This really won't make sense without reading part 1, so I recommend reading 'In Between' first.
> 
> Also, I wanted to say thank you to everyone for the support on part 1 of this! I hope part 2 is worth the wait!
> 
> Also thanks to Dreig who is my lovely beta. :)
> 
> For updates/previews/ramblings/etc, you can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com).
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock pushed open the downstairs door, striding into the front room and glancing briefly at the stairs before starting up them. John followed, two bags containing his more personal possessions in his hands. Mycroft had gathered all of Sherlock’s belongings from Asylum and had assured John that he would collect what he left at Harry’s, so the two packed things that John didn’t want to leave to Mycroft’s men. Not that there was much. Most of it was still packed, because John had gotten little accomplished in his time away from Sherlock.

Sherlock had helped John pack what was left, twitching every time the doctor’s fingers brushed his. He was certain John had noticed his reaction, for the doctor seemed to be doing it deliberately, the caresses turning nearly fond as Sherlock stopped reacting to the sensation of John’s skin against his. Sherlock had been both proud of the progress and despaired of its necessity.

“Welcome to 221B, John,” he said, opening the door to what would be their flat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept. It had been different at Asylum, when it had been just a room. There was some noise on the bottom floor and a kind-looking elderly woman bustled in, walking quickly over to Sherlock and kissing him on each cheek. She walked over to John and gave him the same greeting, twittering pleasantly and ignoring John’s startled look. “Ahh, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock smiled at her, a fond look on his face. Mrs. Hudson was an old friend of his, someone he had known for a long time. She had done him quite the favor, allowing him to rent 221B.

The quiet taxi ride to Baker Street had done wonders for Sherlock’s fragile psyche, John’s undemanding presence next to him allowing him time to put his thoughts back in order. As a result he was nearly back to normal - as normal as he got, anyway. “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson beamed, her eyes warm. “You’ve grown!”

“It has been a few years,” he reminded her, a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled. They had met accidentally, when Sherlock had gotten her husband thrown out and convicted of drug offenses after he had been caught beating her. Mrs. Hudson had taken care of Sherlock for a few months in return, and offered him a place to live. He had refused, of course, but she had made him promise to keep the offer close. She checked in on him occasionally, and had been the one to notify Mycroft when Sherlock originally went missing.

She turned to beam at John, the same sunny smile she had directed in Sherlock’s direction. “There’s a bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“John, take whichever you feel more comfortable in,” Sherlock instructed, untying his scarf and slipping off his wool jacket to hang it near the door. He was still dressed in his impeccable suit, slightly wrinkled though it was. “Although.” Pausing, he noted that the downstairs door was slightly ajar. Walking forward, he nudged it until it swung open. “Ugh. Mycroft the meddler. It seems you will have to make do with the upstairs bedroom. Unless, of course, you wish to move the belongings in here upstairs.”

“Nah, the upstairs works for me,” John said easily. He gathered his luggage and took it upstairs, Sherlock watching him all the while. It felt strange when John was out of his range of vision, like there were ants crawling underneath Sherlock’s skin. It was a wholly unpleasant sensation and Sherlock did his best to shove it out of his mind. Especially when he turned slightly and saw Mrs. Hudson watching him, a twinkle in her eye.

“Ah, young love,” she said with a mournful sigh, going into the kitchen and turning on the kettle. “I’ll make you some tea and biscuits. Just this time. I’m not your housekeeper.” Tsking fondly, she moved about in the kitchen with a quiet confidence, having two steaming cups of tea ready just as John returned to the living room.

Even Sherlock could admit that Mycroft had done a relatively good job replicating the atmosphere of their room at Asylum. A sofa took up a large portion of the space, but there were two armchairs facing each other by the fire, a large table in their kitchen, and bookshelves lining the walls, already stuffed to the brim with Sherlock’s books. The ones John had read, Sherlock noted with interest, were gently placed on a separate shelf, likely so the doctor could find them again if he so desired.

Once they were settled in their armchairs, steaming mugs of tea clutched gratefully in hand, Sherlock stared at the fireplace. The silence continued, and he shifted slightly, uncomfortable. Gone was the comfortable, open vulnerability that had characterized their earlier actions. Sherlock watched John track the landlady as she smiled fondly at them one last time and left the flat, closing the door behind her. The ‘click’ echoed through the quiet sitting room.

“So,” John said awkwardly, clearing his throat. Sherlock tilted his head the slightest amount, eyes flickering to his - flatmate. While he had had flatmates in the past, had dealt with several at Asylum, none of them had been as important as John. It was terrifying, the newness of the whole situation leaving Sherlock a bit raw around the edges. He had never desired an actual relationship with someone, much less contemplated what such a relationship could entail. His previous relationships had been purely physical, mostly when he needed drugs or money. No one had ever drawn him quite like John had.

John shifted in his chair, rearranging himself. Sherlock moved so that he could easily see John out of the corner of his eye without having to tilt his head. There was something in John’s eyes that made him nervous. “What are you thinking?” Sherlock asked, his voice echoing in the stark quiet of the room.

“How awkward it is to sit here and not touch you,” John answered. “How quickly we went from - well, how quickly everything happened.”

“Do you regret it?” Sherlock inquired, trying to not let the sinking feeling in his stomach show on his face.

“No,” John said hastily, nearly cutting off Sherlock’s last word. “Not at all.” The relief Sherlock felt was nearly palpable, reducing his limbs to mush for a few brief seconds. “You said you solved a case?” John asked hesitantly. Sherlock nodded. “Can you tell me about it?”

Outlining both the details and solution of the case was easy, for Sherlock’s memory meant he forgot very little. John listened intently, a half-smile on his face when Sherlock concluded with how Lestrade had texted him about catching the killer. For some reason Sherlock decided to leave out his brother’s connection with the detective inspector. Not that he cared if John knew Mycroft’s business, but he was also aware that Mycroft knew quite a few details of Sherlock’s unsavory history and at least part of him was afraid of Mycroft dirtying whatever they were building with such unnecessary stories.

“Brilliant,” John said, grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t help the slight smile that curved his lips, although he fought to keep his face impassive. Something warm swelled up rapidly in Sherlock’s chest, nearly tilting him off of the chair in its enthusiasm. They sat for a few moments, watching each other. John reached out and gently clasped Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it once Sherlock relaxed and stopped tensing. “Do you regret it?” John asked suddenly, his eyes searching Sherlock’s as if he was looking for something.

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately. “What is there to regret?” That startled a soft chuckle out of the doctor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes; the question had been serious. John seemed to catch on and his expression shifted, becoming fond and cautious at the same time. It made something flutter unpleasantly in Sherlock’s stomach.

“This - this isn’t going to be easy, Sherlock,” John said, each word carefully measured. “If we do - whatever we’re going to do, which I have no idea what is - if we do that, there’s…” he trailed off, struggling to find the words he wanted. Sherlock watched intently, eyes narrowed as he focused on the minute twitches of John’s face. “Sherlock, you told me you haven’t done anything like this before, right?”

“Like what?” Sherlock inquired, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re not making any sense. It’s almost as if someone never taught you how to form a full sentence. I am not a mind reader, John.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” John muttered, drawing a snort from the taller man. “I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“That’s not helping,” Sherlock admonished.

“A relationship,” John said finally. “That’s what we’re doing. If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” Tilting his head slightly, Sherlock continued his scrutiny. John’s face was unshielded as he allowed a warmth to come to his face, a smile curving his lips. Sherlock stared at him, momentarily captured by how wonderful John looked when he was unguarded and happy. It was Sherlock that did that, the thought of Sherlock. He fought down a shiver as he felt a spark in his groin. Inappropriate.

“Yes.”

“Then yes.” John looked pleased for a moment and then the expression was overshadowed by something else, something that clouded the happiness and took John’s sun away. Sherlock frowned, uncertain. Wasn’t that what John wanted? Sherlock to say yes?

“Sherlock,” John started, his voice tender. Sherlock scowled at the floor. He had done what John wanted, right? He wanted Sherlock to say yes. Sherlock wanted to make him happy. Why was John looking worried? Why was he looking at Sherlock that way? “Sherlock, why did you say yes?”

“Because it’s what you want.” Sherlock looked at him, vaguely puzzled. “Isn’t that what a relationship is? Doing something to make the other person happy?” He watched in confusion as John’s expression shifted, sad, wistful, and happy in turns. There were flashes of other emotions that Sherlock could neither name nor understand. “I don’t understand.” He frowned. “Although happiness in itself is a ludicrous concept.” John’s lips quirked into a faint smile and Sherlock adjusted his position in the chair. The knot in his middle seemed to loosen a bit. If John was amused, then it couldn’t be that bad. Hopefully.

“Sherlock, a relationship - a relationship is a partnership. The end goal is for both of us to be happy.” John moved so that he was facing Sherlock fully, his eyes soft as they settled on Sherlock’s face.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said flatly. “Unattainable.” John lifted an eyebrow, seemingly skeptical.

“What do you mean?” the military doctor asked, a furrow appearing between his eyes as he frowned. Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“When one party is incapable of such a tawdry emotion, it becomes their duty to make their partner as - ‘happy’ as possible, correct?”

“No, because that’s not - Sherlock, are you saying you’re not capable of being happy?”

“Stating a fact is not saying, John.”

“Sherlock,” John said, something hitching in the way he said Sherlock’s name. Sherlock glared fiercely at his flatmate, trying to stomp down his flight reaction from leading him down the stairs and out of the flat. He still did not understand what he had done wrong and wanted the world to swallow him alive. If this was what a relationship entailed, he was going to have to reevaluate how much he was willing to do for John. “Sherlock, look at me.”

“No.” Withdrawing his hand from John’s, Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his long arms around them. His chin sank down onto his knees and he scowled at midair, his sharp eyes glaring at the far wall. He didn’t like the vulnerability, nor did he like the feeling that sliced through his chest at John’s worried expression. They had been in 221B less than a day and already Sherlock had messed something up. He scowled viciously at the little voice in his head that asked him how he had expected to do any better. John deserved someone better than him, someone who could cater to John’s needs and wasn’t as damaged.

John stayed silent for a few moments, increasing Sherlock’s agitation until he could no longer sit still but had no idea what to do to release his emotions. He felt like a child again, all restless energy without a proper outlet. It had not taken long before he had resorted to cutting, and then to drugs, sometimes both at once. Anything and everything to expel the energy that sought to destroy him, to pull him apart. Now he had neither. Just someone that was vital to his existence, and he had disappointed that vital element.

Sherlock was certain that John would be disappointed if he hurt himself. He had long played John’s reaction to seeing his scars over and over in his mind, the fear mingling with the horror for what the white marks stood for. Yet without something to replace the familiar, tension-relieving movements, Sherlock was at a loss for what to do. His fingers vibrated with the need to reach for razor or syringe, something, anything that would make the itching sensation crawling over his body go away.

“I’m going to touch you.” The words were barely out of John’s mouth before his hands were on Sherlock, nudging him up and gently accompanying him to the couch where he was quickly sat down. He glared up at John, who was studying him intently. “Did - is there anything I should be worried about on the couch?”

“I don’t need to be coddled, John,” Sherlock snarled. He was not an infant. He could control his transport and the reactions provoked by memories of Moriarty’s hands on his flesh.

“Sherlock, you got upset when I ordered you around.” John said quietly. “It stands to reason that you’ll have other triggers. I want to try and avoid them, but you have to tell me what they are.”

“They’re not a problem.” Sherlock scowled at the shorter man, ignoring the fact that he had to look at him to do so. He was supposed to be ignoring John, figuring out the puzzle that had presented itself, not getting distracted. He needed to figure out how to get John off of the train of thought.

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Stop,” Sherlock snapped. “I can’t - I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

Sherlock bolted up from the couch, throwing his arms up in the air and pacing back and forth, barely a foot from the army doctor. “I can’t. I can’t do what I want to do. I have nothing else. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re not making a bit of sense,” John said, his tone gentle in its concern. Sherlock allowed the words to wash over his skin, wore John’s concern until it seeped in through the cracks in his armour, meeting with his agitation and exploding into volatile fury.

“It’s your fault,” Sherlock hissed, his finger pointed accusingly in John’s direction. All this energy, all the thoughts, it was John’s fault. John should deal with it and make it better. Not that Sherlock had the slightest idea how to go about doing so.

“What’s my fault?” John asked, puzzled.

“Are you trying to be deliberately obtuse?” Sherlock injected as much sarcasm into his tone as possible.

“Sherlock, that’s – bit not good,” John muttered, and Sherlock saw with the smallest amount of vindication that he had hit his target and injured the other man. He stalked back and forth across the carpet, trying to run out his energy as he wove a path around the furniture.

“I can’t - I don’t.” Sherlock continued talking to himself underneath his breath, some words barely making sense as they tumbled chaotically from his lips. His hands flew about in the air as he tried vainly to draw the words out of his mind that did not want to come. John continued to watch him, his distress so palpable that Sherlock could nearly taste it. “I need something.”

“What do you need?” John asked quietly, his voice calm.

“Something,” Sherlock said forcibly, his voice quieting as he thought through where his dealers might be. While cutting was the most practical option, it would be harder to hide from John. What else could John expect? Just because Sherlock left Asylum didn’t mean he was a functioning, normal human being. What had he been thinking? Groaning, he sank onto the sofa, curling into a ball and stubbornly putting his back towards the army doctor.

“Sit up,” John murmured, his hands a careful pressure on Sherlock’s body as he sought to maneuver him into a sitting position. Reluctantly Sherlock obeyed, his body rigid and thighs pressed tightly together. Sherlock felt the shift in the (overly large) sofa as John settled not far from him, feet not far from Sherlock’s thighs. “I’m going to try something, okay? If it makes you uncomfortable at all, let me know.”

Sherlock scowled silently at the floor. It was a weak protest, and he knew it, but he put it up regardless. He could feel John’s gaze on his body, although it didn’t feel overtly sexual. More like assessing. He could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine, nor could he conceal it from John. “Move for a second, yeah?” John murmured, indicating for Sherlock to move a bit farther down the couch. Reluctantly he obeyed, careful to stay as far away from John as possible.

He felt John settle on the sofa, and noticed that John had removed his shoes. It was endearing, in a way, for Sherlock had yet to remove his. John moved again, kneeling in front of Sherlock. The taller man felt gentle hands on his feet, untying and taking off his shoes. “Go change into something comfortable,” John said quietly. Ignoring the hint of electricity and arousal that slid down his spine at John’s touch, Sherlock rose and stalked pointedly around the doctor and into the bedroom. Why was he listening to John? He had no idea.

Regardless of his confusion, he shed his suit and dressed quickly in his pyjamas, somewhat pleased to see that Mycroft had instructed his people to put away Sherlock’s things in his draws. He left off his dressing gown, although he did hook it on his armchair as he walked back into the main room. John was just coming down the stairs, and something softened in his eyes as he saw Sherlock.

While Sherlock could not ignore the energy sizzling under his skin, he also could not deny that he relaxed when John smiled at him. John wouldn’t hurt him. He would take care of him. Sherlock trusted John, after all. His belief in John and his proximity wasn’t enough to completely sate the rampant agitation that had overwhelmed him earlier or to slow his mind to a stop, but it was a start, dampening it to a low buzz just out of his reach. John walked over carefully, giving Sherlock time to adjust to his proximity. Despite that Sherlock could not help but take a step back, his body tensing up.

“Take a deep breath,” John encouraged, careful to keep his tone in check, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock. Sherlock found himself obeying without intentionally doing so, his chest expanding as he took in the requisite breath. John’s smile widened, and Sherlock stared, captivated by the expression and its meaning. “Good,” John praised. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if what he was doing was awkward, and he sat down, his back to the edge of the sofa and his legs parted. Next his hands were on Sherlock’s shoulders, guiding him backwards and into the V of his legs.

Sherlock tensed immediately, his muscles tightening as fear surged through his body. “It’s nothing like that,” John murmured immediately, his hands gentle on Sherlock’s shoulders, neither pressuring nor insisting. “Just a cuddle.”

“A moronic human custom,” Sherlock muttered, although he could not deny that he was mildly intrigued by the idea. It was something he had never done. It could be something in their - was it proper to call it a relationship after the unresolved debate? It could be something he could share with John without some semblance of baggage. John frowned slightly, watching the emotions play across Sherlock’s face. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his ‘well-what-are-you-waiting-for’ face in complete control.

John snorted and shook his head slightly before cautiously pulling on Sherlock’s shoulders and arranging him so that he was laying on John’s chest, the back of his head tucked in the crook of John’s shoulder. The military doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest, ensuring that his grip wasn’t so tight that Sherlock couldn’t break out if he needed to. Sherlock closed his eyes as soon as John had settled, assimilating the myriad of sensations that were assaulting him.

It was an odd sensation, being held by another person. Sherlock had been expecting plebeian emotions - comfort, caring - sentiment in a nutshell. While they were there, they were nearly overpowered by other feelings rolling through his body, darker things that Sherlock was unable to name. He wanted to break free, wanted to sink deeper, wanted to meld into John until he was indistinguishable. He wanted to - Sherlock nearly cringed at the banality of it all - he wanted to own John, to make it clear to the rest of the world that John was his.

It was irritating and so very confusing and Sherlock honestly could have done without all of it. What startled him the most was how much the itching, craving sensation had faded. He felt oddly anchored by John’s presence, shielded by the strong, tanned arms wrapped around his chest. Shifting awkwardly John leaned down to press his lips against Sherlock’s temple, a soft, taunting mockery of a kiss (in Sherlock’s opinion, anyway). Yet it felt right. “Better?” John murmured, his words floating across Sherlock’s skin and sending shivers down his spine.

“Better,” Sherlock admitted, his eyes still closed. The maelstrom of emotions had calmed, leaving him feeling oddly peaceful. He was still secure, so no matter how far his mind drifted, it had a home to return to. He moved with John’s chest, up and down as he inhaled and exhaled. Their breathing patterns mingled and matched, two becoming one. It was strangely peaceful and Sherlock felt himself slipping off to sleep.

It was like the night he had a panic attack, the night the thought that John might care first crossed his mind. His body had seized up and reacted violently, shoving all rationality from its domain and allowing chaos to wreak havoc. “Sherlock?” John asked tentatively, and Sherlock realized that he had grasped John’s arm and was digging his fingers in. Flinching he released his grip and attempted to sit up. He was oddly disappointed when John did not stop him, although he made no movement to leave the warm, safe V of John’s legs.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling oddly unsettled by the realisation of how much being so close to John had affected him. He wanted more, he wanted less. Instead he stayed where he was, torn between moving away and leaning back. His eyes were clenched tightly shut. They flew open when he felt John shift. He turned, startled to realize that John was mere centimetres away, eyes cautious as they took in Sherlock’s appearance.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered from John’s eyes to his lips as John leaned in. Sherlock quickly figured out what was coming, anticipation forming a snarl in his stomach that tensed as John got closer. John’s lips pressed against his as soft as a feather, cautious, testing. Sherlock hummed eagerly, pressing back at once. Moriarty’s taunting words flashed through his mind and Sherlock felt the ghost of pressure on his abdomen, sliding down his belly, his mind flickering back to that night on the sofa.

He drew back with a hiss, body involuntarily sliding off of the sofa and falling on the floor with a thud as he curled into a defensive posture. His heart was racing and felt like it was going to pound its way out of his chest. Blood surged through his veins as he tried to calm the racing onslaught of imagery, haunted by Moriarty and other’s lips all over his body. The mocking words from when Moriarty had first met him at Asylum rang through his mind, the images such words had provoked terrifying as he fought down rising arousal. He wanted John to touch him, he wanted John to caress him, to kiss him, but any time Sherlock thought more about it, it was like Moriarty was there, like it was Moriarty’s hands sliding on his skin, Moriarty’s mouth against his.

It was then that Sherlock snapped back to reality and realized John was murmuring ‘sorry, I’m so sorry’ over and over again, a litany, a prayer as it flowed from his mouth. “What are you sorry for?” Sherlock asked, feeling numb, detached from his body and the situation. It was unsettling; he craved to be back near John, if only to have the confusing comfort that had been offered mere moments before.

“I - I kissed you,” John said with a slight frown. “You weren’t ready. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Ignoring the ridiculousness of that statement, Sherlock tentatively moved his limbs, testing them to see if he had regained control now that his heart had calmed. “Stay still,” he ordered quietly, examining John. John fell silent, unmoving, watching the movements of Sherlock’s eyes with mild interest. Cautiously Sherlock slid back onto the couch, inching closer to whatever-John-was, spreading out until he was curled up on his side, his shoulder on John’s chest, his head tucked underneath John’s neck.

Dissatisfied, Sherlock shifted so that he was practically laying on the doctor. The height difference, thankfully, ensured that their groins were not slotted together (Sherlock was partially afraid of the sensory overload, for the memories associated with that part of his mind were likely to be bad). His mouth was against John’s neck, allowing him to press soft kisses to the tender skin if he so desired. One arm he wrapped gently around John’s waist, the other clutching the soft fabric of John’s shirt. He felt the warmth of John’s groin against his stomach, and it wasn’t a wholly uncomfortable feeling - just different.

Never could Sherlock have ever imagined that he would do something like it, cuddling with another person. His parents had never been particularly physically affectionate, and any prior attempt at a relationship had either been met with disdain (on one part or another) or physical violence. Then Moriarty had sunk his fangs in and Sherlock had been in serious trouble. He had no idea that - Sherlock struggled vainly to put what was happening into words, only to be resigned when he failed. He had no idea that anything could be as lovely as what was happening now, curled up against warm, steady John, breathing synchronised as they just existed.

He felt John tentatively sift a hand through his curls, testing their strength and resiliency as he tenderly ran the soft pads of his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock tensed briefly, reminded of Moriarty’s brutal hand in his hair, yanking him about, but the contrast was enough to restore him to some semblance of calm, the gentle caresses sending shivers through his body. It was strangely intimate, the soft, repetitive motion, and Sherlock felt a rumble in his chest expressing his contentment with the situation. If he had been a cat, he would have been purring. He couldn’t help but scowl. It was predictable and vain and so full of sentiment that it was disgusting.

Yet he wanted more. Without realizing it he nuzzled John’s neck, pushing his head further into John’s hand. He felt like he was drowning in John, in his smell and warmth, in the comfort and safety that he offered. Sherlock had never felt the peculiar mix of emotions threatening to drown him, and he was willingly succumbing to their potent spell. “What are you feeling?” John spoke softly, his words gently sinking into Sherlock’s awareness.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock responded, so quietly that he was not certain John heard him. He shifted slightly, tightening his grasp on the man underneath him as if John was going to run away. “Warm. Safe. Drowning.” The vulnerability of the position wasn’t entirely comfortable, but Sherlock had fared worse when he had gone to John after John had left him.

The feelings left him not wanting to ever move, not wanting to give up the warmth that seemed to invade his very core and radiate outward. “Those are good,” John murmured. “Except for the drowning, but we’ll work on that. Sherlock, why don’t you think you can be happy?”

Sherlock twitched slightly in surprise, although his body was too relaxed to put up more of a protest. It was a comfortable, sleepy-tense that Sherlock found oddly reassuring. He was alert, aware of the discomfort of the topic, but he felt like he was melting into a puddle of goo. Although he was the one on top of John, he felt like John was his blanket, keeping him warm and protecting him from the real world. “It’s what I’ve always been told.”

“By who?” John craned his head to look down at Sherlock, drawing a tired protest from the taller man. He settled, although Sherlock could feel the scowl on his face. He half-shrugged, dismissive.

“Everyone,” he said offhandedly.

“How about we not think about what everyone else said?” John said firmly. His unoccupied hand draped over Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock thought over what he said and frowned.

“I don’t understand.” He hated to admit his weak point, but sentiment was not something he could ignore and expect to keep John’s happiness.

“Look.” John’s thumb started rubbing gentle little circles into Sherlock’s skin through the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock shivered under the sensation, the onslaught uncomfortable but in a good way. He could handle it. “I’m not everyone, right? I’m me.” John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair paused in its ministrations enough for John to gently press his lips and nose to the top of the curly head. “I want to try and make it right. I want a chance to make you happy, or to give it my best shot. Maybe things will be different with us. Just the two of us.” He paused. “If that’s what you want, of course.”

“I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock said grudgingly. His mind was whirling with the implications of John’s words. John wanted to - try what? What did that mean? What did he expect of Sherlock? Was there some kind of special significance to ascribe to John’s words, or was this something normal that one normal person did for another? There were so many layers and potential hidden meanings and Sherlock’s mind could not sort through all of them fast enough.

“Stop thinking,” John advised quietly, his hand in Sherlock’s hair returning to its caressing cadence. “Sherlock, what does a relationship mean to you?”

“Making someone else happy,” Sherlock answered immediately, at first confident in his answer. Part of him was hesitant as soon as the words left his mouth - John had been dissatisfied with the answer last time; what would he think this time?

“That’s part of it, yeah,” John agreed, arm tightening the smallest amount over Sherlock’s hips. “People enter relationships because they want to be happy with the other person. They want to share things and grow close.” He must have felt Sherlock tense, because he stopped talking and cuddled him instead (was that a verb? Sherlock had no idea and found he did not really care as to whether or not it was). “I want that with you. I want to give it a try. Sherlock, you told me when you came to me that you needed me. I need you. I want this. I just want to know whether or not you want it too.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Sherlock said harshly, the words escaping faster than he had intended. “I don’t know what you expect of me.”

“Nothing,” John said just as quickly. “I just want you to be yourself.”

“You can’t possibly be satisfied with that,” Sherlock said dismissively, tossing the idea aside, metaphorical though it was.

“Why not?” John inquired mildly, thumb caressing Sherlock’s skin in gentle circles. “I like you as you are.”

Sherlock’s derisive snort was his answer and John sighed. “We’ll work on it, then,” he told the curly-haired man. “Do you want to move?” Sherlock growled and curled closer, feeling oddly possessive. He had no idea where the impulses were coming from but did not have the energy to fight them, tired as he was. Being vulnerable and listening to John’s questions and truly trying to understand what John meant took a toll on Sherlock’s mentality, and all he wanted to do was sleep. It had been a long, difficult day and he was tired of exposing all of his emotions.

He drifted off to sleep, still held in John’s arms.

-

John was still asleep when Sherlock woke up some hours later, still sprawled on the sofa, their limbs still twined together. He blinked, momentarily dazed, and then lifted his head, carefully supporting himself with a hand on the sofa instead of on John. John looked - younger, while asleep, his face relaxed and the tension at least temporarily gone from his muscles. Sherlock felt the irrational impulse to - do something, like hug him, and instead carefully removed himself from John’s proximity on the sofa.

Yesterday felt like it had been one long nightmare and Sherlock still felt a bit raw around the edges, his psyche fragile from being poked and prodded. Today he had a purpose. Walking into his bedroom, he surveyed it carefully, noting with pleasure the various science equipment that Mycroft had bought for just this purpose. He would never admit it, but Mycroft did know him rather well.

He left his door open, able to see John asleep on the sofa if he craned his head just so. Which he did every twenty or thirty seconds, ensuring that the army doctor was still there, asleep, and safe. Scowling at the wall in protest of his inanity, he grabbed the microscope and several test tube vials and took them out to the kitchen. He made a few more trips, setting up various science equipment on the table and counters that made up their small nook.

The next step was problematic, for he needed some proper materials for his experiments. Mycroft had been his supplier at Asylum, and since Mrs. Hudson had not panicked when she got the biscuits, or made the tea, it seemed unlikely that any of his previous experiments had survived his week-long blackout. He needed a new supplier, preferably one Mycroft didn’t know about. He also needed to talk to Lestrade, see if there was any more cases for him to get his hands on.

Mycroft’s past association with the policeman likely meant that he would continue to come to him, but Sherlock needed to cement the cooperation, and continue it. His trust fund, under Mycroft’s control due to his situation, would be allocated funds to support them at 221B Baker Street, but he felt that John would want to at least pretend to contribute to the situation. Even if, to John, it wasn’t pretending. Sherlock could graciously allow him to buy the groceries, then. He could utilise the brain power for more important things.

He settled in the kitchen, careful to angle his body so that he could see John at all times. It was frustrating, the prickling worry that seemed to cover his skin whenever John was out of his sight for more than ten seconds. If Sherlock was going to go take care of his business, get a supplier and steady work, he would need to go on his own. Yet the strange, unsettling emotions seemed determined to wreck any chance of that actually happening.

Letting out a huff of frustration, he cringed when he saw John twitch on the couch. Sherlock made the mistake of looking in John’s direction (for what felt like the hundredth time in the past twenty seconds, when in reality it was the third in the past seventeen point two). He was captivated by the way John yawned, sleek muscles rippling under tanned skin, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes as he stretched on the sofa. It wasn’t long before John seemed to realize that Sherlock wasn’t with him and looked around.

Then he saw Sherlock at the kitchen table, and the smile that he gave Sherlock would have sent him crashing to the ground if he had not already been sitting. It was warmth and happiness and comfort and desire and - Sherlock just stared, his mouth dropping slightly open. “There you are,” John mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, John,” Sherlock said after several long minutes. It was all he could think of to say, and it wasn’t enough. It would have to do.

“Kay,” John agreed, his eyes fluttering closed and his breathing evening out. Within moments he was asleep, and Sherlock just stared. He was mildly envious; sleep rarely came that easy to him and often it came not at all. The fact he had fallen asleep on John the previous night was from a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion and unlikely (he hoped) to happen again in the near future.

It was strange. Sherlock was sitting at the table, physically focused on the various tubes and vials in front of him, yet his mind kept fluttering back to the man asleep on the sofa. It was wholly unnerving and Sherlock wished that the entire thing would go away. At the same time, he wished it would never leave. Even asleep John made Sherlock feel better, the warmth of his presence soothing some of the scattered cravings that Sherlock was still dealing with.

The - ‘cuddles’, as John put it in the disgusting colloquialism - had done wonders to ease his jitters, but they had not eradicated them completely. There was a lot of emotion that Sherlock could not identify, nor could he scrape it into its proper box to dispose of it or at least lessen its hold over him. Instead he was left muddling through a puddle of sentiment that seemed to continue expanding whenever he glanced away from it for a single second.

John cared about Sherlock, and Sherlock cared about John. That was going to have to be enough for now. He could only hope that they could sort through the rest in due time and that John would not become too horrified by his eventual shortcomings. Shaking his head slightly, he turned back to arranging his science equipment, careful to glance John’s direction every thirty seconds on the dot. While he could not identify the warmth that spread throughout him every time he was reassured of the doctor’s presence, it didn’t mean he was going to ignore it. He was nearly positive it was a good thing.


	2. We Can Always Talk About It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! For some reason this was one of my favorites to write. A bit twisted, I know (but you'll see that soon enough). Some hurt/comfort, some fluff, some bit-not-good ness. Next chapter is in two weeks and we're back to Sherlock's perspective!
> 
> Thanks all for the support on this and the continued encouragement. :) You guys are awesome.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com)!

John stretched as he came into awareness, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and glancing around. It took him less than twenty seconds to realize that he was now alone and covered in a blanket that had not been around prior to the two falling asleep. “Sherlock?” he said tenuously, pushing himself up on his elbows to look around. The curly head lifted itself up from the microscope he was peering at.

“You sleep too much,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, turning his focus back to the eyepieces in front of him.

“Good morning to you too,” John chuckled, oddly relieved to see him still in the flat. Part of him had expected, after the events of yesterday, to find that Sherlock had given up and fled far away.

“I do not see the point in exchanging pleasantries,” Sherlock muttered, shifting slightly in his chair. There was something unusual to the motion, some tension that hung in the air and that seemed to colour all of Sherlock’s movements dark. The taller man glanced John’s way and then seemed to shake himself and turn his focus more completely back to the task in front of him.

“You’re back to normal.” John smiled, some of his worries leaving him at that realisation. Yesterday - yesterday had been nearly as difficult as coping with the last night in the hospital, but in a different way. Sherlock had been so vulnerable and open and John had felt so much shame and guilt intermingling and then they’d ended up on the couch and John had just prayed that he wouldn’t get an erection and ruin it all.

“Get dressed,” Sherlock ordered. “We’re going out.”

“Definitely back to normal,” John said with a snort, shaking his head as he stood up. He cracked the kinks out of his back and stretched, pleased to note stretched, warm muscles. He had not been asleep much longer than Sherlock, then, no matter what he said. Regardless he trotted upstairs, grabbing a change of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. “Do I have time for a shower?” he called.

“If you must,” Sherlock shouted back, his tone as sarcastic as he could manage.

It did John’s heart good to hear him acerbic and sarcastic. After the events of the past two weeks and with Moriarty and Sherlock’s vulnerability he was afraid he had lost the childish part of Sherlock’s personality. Part of him had been worried that Sherlock had broken for good, and that John was the reason. Already he had been given so much to worry over. Both of them had. John had to worry about Sherlock and his coping skills. While John had been mostly supported through his therapy at Asylum, Sherlock had taken none of the resources available to him and had coped on his own.

Through drugs and cutting, various ways of lashing out at his transport. Last night he had been on the verge of doing something, and instead he had allowed John to help him. While it had been amazing and nice and wonderful, John was certain that it would not be that easy the second time Sherlock needed help. Sherlock didn’t trust John, didn’t trust the fact that John trusted him, nor did he think that John deserved to help him for what he had done.

John had gotten quite the education on relationships through his time at Asylum and even more through the friends he had made in his months there. It was quite likely that they would steer him away from entering a relationship with Sherlock, he thought as he scrubbed himself quickly in the shower. As much as he would have loved to have taken the time for a wank, to hopefully head off any erections for at least some part of the rest of the day, Sherlock wasn’t the patient sort and John wouldn’t put it past him to barge into the bathroom if he took too long.

“John!” Sherlock shouted from downstairs. Cursing John finished washing himself off and stepped out of the tub, drying himself off as quickly as he could. His clothes slid on next, sticking in spots to his slightly damp skin.

“Hold on a bloody moment!” John grumbled back, pulling on his shoes and nearly tripping as he attempted to maneuver down the stairs at the same time. He stopped as Sherlock came into view, his eyes wide. Gone were the pyjama bottoms and the dressing gown and back were the tailored suits and sharply polished shoes.

“Really, John, must you stare so?” Sherlock scowled, although John could see him preen the slightest bit at John’s obvious admiration.

“It’s hard not to when you look like that,” John pointed out. Spots of colour appeared high on Sherlock’s cheeks as he grabbed his wool coat and pulled it on. “So where are we going?” he asked, shrugging on his own jacket.

“Barts,” Sherlock said shortly, opening the door and heading down the stairs without waiting for John to follow. The doctor closed the door as he left and trotted after the much taller man, struggling to keep up.

“Isn’t that a hospital?” John inquired mildly, fighting down the rising alarm he felt. Was Sherlock hurt? Was there something John was supposed to know about that was important?

“Yes,” Sherlock answered absently, flagging down a taxi and getting in. John eyed the taxi suspiciously and then followed. He hoped that Sherlock had the money for the ride, for he certainly didn’t. A hand settled a few centimetres away from John’s hand, warm and comforting. “Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly, as if it explained everything.

“Mycroft?” John asked, experiencing the chronic feeling of being a half-step behind.

Sherlock’s exasperated sigh made John hide a smile. “To continue my experiments, I need a supplier,” he clarified, his voice unusually kind. “Mycroft, as much as I dislike the smug sod’s meddling, has arranged a contact for me at the local hospital’s morgue.”

“And why do you need me here?” John shifted his hand closer to Sherlock, so his pinkie finger was gently nudging the taller man’s thumb. It wasn’t a pushy maneuver, but designed to comfort both men. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the contact, seeming for a long second that he was not certain how to respond.

Sherlock turned his head away from John, angling his face so that he was watching the buildings roll by. His chosen response, apparently, was silence. It wasn’t what John had hoped for, but it was better than a sneer and a scathing retort. Instead Sherlock’s hand inched closer until it was nearly on top of John’s, and the doctor shifted so that he could twine their hands together. He was immensely proud of Sherlock for seeking the physical contact, even as a reassurance.

Yesterday’s vulnerability had torn raw, jagged wounds open for both men, John assumed. His had not been nearly as bad as Sherlock’s, already rough around the edges from Moriarty’s interference. John was haunted by far less, mostly the ghost of his memories past and the way he had treated Sherlock. And then Sherlock had been dismissive and certain that, in a relationship, his job was solely to keep John happy so that, predictably, he would stay with him.

John wasn’t certain what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. His heart clenched as Sherlock’s hand tightened on his. Carefully he stroked his thumb over the widest part of Sherlock’s hand, trying to convey reassurance as best as he could. Sherlock didn’t seem to react well to words. Maybe he would react to actions, deny them less and accept their inevitability. John could already tell it was going to be a slow process.

The taxi pulled to a stop, throwing both men out of their thoughts. Reluctantly John let go of Sherlock’s hand, climbing out of the taxi only to hear the driver shouting at him, demanding payment. “Sherlock!” John huffed, watching the coat twirl as it disappeared into the doors to the hospital. Groaning John pulled out his wallet and threw a few bank notes at the driver before jogging to catch up with the berk that had left him, broke as he was, to pay.

“You weren’t broke,” Sherlock said as John caught up, amusement colouring his tone mingling with something John didn’t recognise.

“Pretty close to it,” John reminded him, thinking of the near-empty wallet. “You can’t do that to people, Sherlock.”

“Why not?” he asked absentmindedly, his gaze darting about as he seemed to be looking for a specific room.

“It’s not polite.”

“Your point?” He was even more distracted. John sighed, deciding to give up the line of conversation and nearly running into the taller man when he completely changed directions.

“Oi!” John protested.

“Do keep up.” Sherlock flashed him his fake smile and continued down a hall. John frowned for several reasons, although they muddied together in his mind. They were headed to the morgue, and that was generally not a happy place. And that smile had absolutely no place on Sherlock’s face. If John had been able to, he would have dragged Sherlock into a cupboard and kissed him senseless until the smile was not even a memory. It had been forced, like Sherlock thought he needed to have it on his face for John to think he was happy.

John was so distracted by this thoughts that he nearly ran into the swinging doors leading into the mortuary. He emerged on the other side to see Sherlock watching him a bit oddly, the mask he was wearing slipping the slightest amount into something resembling concern before his face smoothed out. Sherlock turned to the brown-haired woman who was fussing over the naked body on the autopsy table.

“Dr. Hooper?” Sherlock inquired, his voice deceptively mild. John shifted the slightest amount; there was something in Sherlock’s voice he didn’t like. It was too nice, too friendly, and had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight.

The woman looked up from the body and dropped the scalpel. It clanged loudly against the metal autopsy table as her mouth dropped open. John couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit possessive and he took a small step towards - whatever Sherlock was. Sherlock was his, label or no, and John wasn’t going to allow some pathologist to think otherwise. If the woman actually was a pathologist, anyway - she was rather young-looking. John wouldn’t put her past 28 or 29.

“Yes?” she squeaked, clumsily reaching down and picking the instrument back up. She was more cautious this time in her movements, aware of her audience, although she seemed to be ignoring John nearly completely. He would have found it flattering, for Sherlock’s sake, if he wasn’t so busy being jealous. A few steps took him to Sherlock’s side, arms crossed defiantly over his chest as he narrowed his eyes just a bit. Enough to (hopefully) come across as intimidating.

In doing so his elbow brushed Sherlock’s side. Even through the wool coat he could feel Sherlock recoil from the touch, and his internal something-is-wrong meter jumped up a notch or three. Something was definitely wrong, and Sherlock wasn’t saying anything about it. “Sherlock Holmes.” The taller man inclined his head slightly, hands remaining in his pocket.

“Oh! You’re the one - that - the thumbs…” she trailed off, blinking owlishly.

“Yes.” Sherlock seemed amused now, the barest hint of a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. John forced back his own snort of amusement at the woman’s apparent clumsiness, watching as she nearly tripped over her own feet before making it to a refrigerator on the side. From inside she pulled out two bags of dark, fluid-filled bags with the barest hint of flesh pressing against the sheer plastic. John’s stomach rolled. “Ah, thank you.” He flashed her the same fake smile that he had given John earlier and plucked the bags from her grasp, careful to avoid any actual physical contact. “Come along, John,” Sherlock commanded. He turned around and strode out the door.

John smiled his own fake smile at the flustered woman and turned around and strode after Sherlock. His thigh twinged and he grimaced, rubbing it absently. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he forced himself to move faster and caught up with the long-limbed Sherlock. He barely made it into the taxi before it was moving. Opening his mouth, he caught sight of Sherlock’s profile in the reflection of the window and shut it resolutely.

Tension was evident in every visible inch of Sherlock’s frame. The corner of his mouth that John could see was stiff, and he was held so rigidly that John feared he would shatter just from the strain of maintaining his posture. Sherlock’s eyes were closed tightly, his hands clenching the seat of the taxi, knuckles white. All John wanted to do was draw Sherlock close and hold him, but he knew it would not be received the way he wanted it to be.

He cleared his throat. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock gave him the same fake smile, a reassuring pat on the thigh, and then turned back to the window, his body immediately resuming its previous posture. John was not at all reassured. If anything, he was even more frightened for Sherlock’s mental state. The taxi pulled up at a building John didn’t recognise. This time, however, Sherlock threw a few notes at the cabbie before stepping out. He didn’t wait for John to follow, but it was progress nonetheless.

They walked into the headquarters of New Scotland Yard, and John followed Sherlock into the office of one DI Greg Lestrade. “Sherlock!” the silver-haired man said, lifting his head from the pile of paperwork in front of him and offering Sherlock a tired smile. “Please, take a seat.”

“This is Dr. John Watson, my colleague.” Sherlock inclined his head the barest amount, indicating that they were to take a seat in front of the DI. Sherlock seemed to relax the slightest amount once he sat, and John reflected it, allowing some of the tension to seep from his shoulders and loosen his posture.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man said, extending a hand in John’s direction. He shook it, smiling pleasantly. “You can call me Lestrade.”

“I understand that you have some cases for me?” Sherlock cut in, his eyes focused in Lestrade’s direction.

“Just cold ones to start with, mind you,” Lestrade said. Wearily he reached down and lifted a box onto the desk, pushing it in Sherlock’s direction. “Mycroft said he would have some books on criminal investigation and forensics sent to your place for you to study. Memorise those, I’ll test you, and then we can talk about getting you on some fresh crime scenes.”

“There are conditions.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John tensed the slightest amount at the skepticism in Sherlock’s voice.

“Of course,” Lestrade said, amicable. “You have to stay clean. Yeah, I know about your little problem. Your brother and I go way back.” John’s attention was drawn by Sherlock’s snort and the way the DI tensed. “I’ll ignore that. Dr. Watson, is it? You’ll be in charge of collecting the UAs and delivering them to the testing facility.”

“Isn’t this outside of your division, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock snarled, the fury practically radiating from his skin. Greg’s smile was sharp and cruel at points, and even John cringed.

“I’m doing you a favor letting you onto these scenes, Sherlock. Don’t forget that. It’s only thanks to your brother that I’m able to do what I’m doing. I can pull the privilege at any point in time. I’m not asking much,” Lestrade said, his voice digging holes into John’s chest. He could only imagine what Sherlock was thinking, what he was feeling.

Sherlock opened his mouth and John stood, hurriedly bumping into his chair and disrupting whatever he had been intending to say. “Thanks, DI Lestrade,” John said rapidly, trying to guide Sherlock to the door without touching him. He grabbed the box from the table and used that to herd the protesting man. “We’ll be in touch.”

Greg’s smile was hard and dismissive and John ushered Sherlock back outside. “What was that for?” Sherlock demanded. John stopped and stared, his heart sinking. Sherlock was still angry, still furious, except this time it was at John. John was the convenient outlet, something Sherlock could vent at without fear of retribution. Or was it considering venting if Sherlock truly did not understand?

“Sherlock,” John said, patient. “You were about to say something a bit not good.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock sneered, pacing about two metres before stopping and returning back to John’s side. His gaze kept flickering in John’s direction and towards the street, resolving once he flagged a taxi and got in. John sat the box of papers down next to Sherlock and went to sit down. He was stopped by a flat, wide hand on his side. “Take the next one, by yourself,” Sherlock said coolly.

Dumbfounded John watched as the door to the taxi shut in his face and drove off. He even heard the cabbie protest faintly, overruled by Sherlock’s sharp tongue and even sharper demeanor. Numbly he pulled out his wallet, investigating the remainders of its contents in hope that he would have enough for a taxi home. Home that was, suddenly, feeling far less like one and more like a dungeon.

Yesterday had been so promising, John mused. His evaluation of the wallet had revealed that, at a minimum, he would need to walk at least twenty minutes before he would have enough to pay for a taxi the rest of the way back. Shoving his hands into his pocket, wallet clutched in one broad palm, he strode off in the right direction.

He made it no more than a hundred feet before a smooth, unmarked black car slid up next to him. John groaned as the window rolled down, revealing Sherlock’s older brother sitting inside. “We need to talk,” was all Mycroft said. Shame ran hot and heavy through John’s veins, the memory of their last meeting playing unbidden through his mind. John saying what he had, and basically abandoning Sherlock after - John didn’t even know the details of what had happened, but he had left a vulnerable Sherlock behind and Mycroft was probably coming to have him drawn and quartered or something equally drastic.

Mind churning, John reluctantly got into the black car, careful to sit as far away from Mycroft as he could. He hunched down, unconsciously mirroring the troubled thoughts in his mind as he stared at his shoes. “Sherlock left you behind?” Mycroft inquired mildly, his voice light and nonjudgmental.

“If you’re going to kill me, can you at least make sure Sherlock is safe first?” John asked wearily. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Likely back to Baker Street.” Mycroft pulled a sleek mobile out of his pocket and tapped a few buttons, an unusually delicate motion that seemed to suit his hidden grace. “I am not going to kill you, John.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” John muttered, his hands on his head and elbows balanced on his knees. He wasn’t totally certain if that had been a sarcastic comment or not. The boundaries between reality and fantasy seemed to be blurring as the car continued on its way. “Where are we going?”

“For a drive.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly, a movement John caught out of the corner of his eyes. So it was a pointless question, then. He was going to be there for as long as Mycroft wanted something. “Why did Sherlock leave you behind?”

“Aren’t you smarter than he is?” John said peevishly. “Why don’t you deduce it like he does?”

“Because I am under the impression that it is generally considered more polite to inquire such facts.” The razor-sharp quality to Mycroft’s voice left John feeling oddly scolded, like he was a child who had attempted to correct his betters. “If you would rather me deduce, I am more than up for the challenge.”

“I don’t even know what happened,” John exploded, his hands leaving the cradle they had made for his head and gesturing in front of him. “He upsets this DI, who I’ve never met before but he seems to know, because he wants UAs from Sherlock and I’ll have to be the chain of custody and then I told Sherlock to watch what he was saying because he got this look on his face that means nothing good and then - then he just stormed off.”

“Ah,” Mycroft murmured. “I see.”

“That obviously means something to you,” John pointed out after nearly a minute of silence had elapsed. “I would like an explanation here. Though I don’t know if he’ll even be home when I get there. If that’s where I’m going.”

“He will be,” Mycroft said absently, his hands crossed over the brolly in front of him, eyes focused on the empty seat opposite where he was sitting. “He’ll be waiting, and guilty, and…” Mycroft trailed off suddenly. He leaned forward, somewhat invading John’s space to knock officiously on the divider between the back and the front.

“Yes?” A crackly voice came from the small speaker not far from John’s head. Mycroft pressed a small button, enabling him to be heard.

“221B. Fast,” he demanded curtly.

Ice had replaced the shame that had previously rendered John warm. Something was wrong. “What’s going on?”

“If we are lucky, nothing,” Mycroft said with a grimace. “Unfortunately, with Sherlock, one rarely has that kind of luck.”

The car lurched forward and John could feel it pick up speed. There was a tense silence for a long minute, one that John spent the time trying to figure out how to break without causing damage to either party. “Detective Inspector Lestrade and I go quite far back. I could have, of course, merely commanded him to work with Sherlock, but I have found in - certain matters, asking produces better results.”

There was something to Mycroft’s face that made John decide to not pursue that line of questioning further. He didn’t want to know, and honestly felt it was none of his business. “His request for drug testing for Sherlock is not something he ran by me. He is aware of Sherlock’s drug history, for a reason I do not care to disclose.” Mycroft seemed to take a moment to compose himself. “While you were able to utilise Asylum’s resources to their potential, my younger brother did nothing of the sort and still lingers behind in that sort of development.”

“He’s going to do something stupid,” John realized, fear and anger settling into his chest, quickening his breath and bringing a flush to his cheeks. Mycroft’s slight nod was all John needed and as soon as the car stopped he burst out, barely ensuring that he had everything he had arrived in the car with before he dashed up the stairs and threw the door open.

Sherlock was collapsed on the floor, the syringe still in his hand and the rubber band still about his thin upper arm, barely visible underneath the ragged cotton of his dressing gown. John’s heart stuttered and stopped, time seeming suspended as his mind flashed back mere months to the fateful night Sherlock nearly died. His doctor side took over, logic rising to the surface, and he immediately noticed the steady, even breathing. Sherlock may have been on the ground and likely under the influence of something, but he was breathing regularly.

The next question was what to do with him until he woke up. There were many more questions after that one, but John was afraid if he took too much time to ponder them all that he would lose his resolve and leave. He doubted that Sherlock would survive if he left. A little, niggling part of his brain pointed out that Sherlock didn’t seem to be doing so great with John still there. John ignored it, ignored Mycroft walking in the door as he lifted Sherlock up onto the sofa. He had been fond of the one at Asylum and John assumed that would carry over to the one in their new home.

Dragging the armchair over to the couch, but far enough away that Sherlock had some space and didn’t feel cornered when he woke up, John settled into his spot for the night, determined to watch over his flatmate. “Heroin,” Mycroft said quietly, breaking into John’s thoughts. John took in a ragged breath, eyes clenching shut as he fought a flood of tears. While he had never done drugs himself, he had known a few University mates who had gone down that path at one point or another, and they spoke fondly of the tranquility of a heroin high.

“He was trying to blank everything out.” John’s words seemed to startle Mycroft, for he felt a change in the posture behind him. “I haven’t, but I knew a couple blokes in University who did drugs.”

Mycroft made some sort of noncommittal noise and moved into John’s range of vision, standing behind the sofa and looking down at Sherlock with an uncharacteristic fondness in his eyes. John stared, unwillingly captivated. The range of emotions that an unguarded Mycroft showed were nearly overwhelming in their intensity. Fondness for his brother mingled with a deeper hurt, pain vivid in the ice-blue orbs. There was a sharpness in their depths, an assessing gaze as he swept his focus up and down his brother, assessing for non-visible hurts. “He’s so young,” Mycroft murmured. John chose to stay silent, for it sounded like Mycroft was more talking to himself than to the doctor.

He seemed to realize he had strayed and John watched an icy mask descend onto his features. “Watch over him.” With that final order Mycroft turned around and left John perched on the armchair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee as he sat his vigil. The worst part about the soft click echoing around the room as Mycroft left was that it seemed to give John’s mind permission to tumble the last few steps into complete chaos.

Thoughts whirled around, no order, no direction, just disorder. God, what had he been thinking, agreeing to this? They were wrong for each other, like two jagged, discordant puzzle pieces trying to fit together. Sherlock was delusional, thinking he needed John, and John was just as bad, thinking he could be good for Sherlock. Ghosts of his past floated by, adding to his distress, words like ‘stupid’, ‘foolish’, ‘reckless’, ‘worthless’, all fighting to integrate themselves into his mindset.

He was conflicted, felt torn between two options. Desperately he wished Sherlock was awake. Sherlock would be able to make sense of what was going on, and make things better. Immediately he realized how foolish of a thought that was, how Sherlock could barely make himself better, much less someone else. John’s heart ached and he felt a single tear slide its way down his cheek. Sherlock was so fragile and it was John’s duty to protect him. But how did you protect someone who did not want to be protected?

Sherlock pretended to be strong, and had only shown his vulnerability to John a few times. The doctor replayed the scene at the police yard over and over in his head, trying to discover the trigger that had provoked Sherlock’s behavior. Had something been growing all day? Sherlock’s fake smile from earlier at Barts rose unbidden, and John’s hands, clasped in his lap, tightened so fiercely around each other that his knuckles were white and his nails were digging crescents into soft flesh.

It was his fault, somehow. Everything was always his fault. “It’s not your fault.” Sherlock’s soft, languid voice startled John, and he jerked in the chair, arms flying to the sides and digging into the fabric.

“You’re - you’re awake?” he asked dumbly.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, his eyes fluttering open and a soft smile curving his lips. John, for a moment, thought the smile was directed at him, a happiness at seeing him there. Then he noticed the small pinprick pupils and his heart sank. Sherlock was high as a kite, lost in the warm, comfortable feeling of heroin intoxication.

“How did - what - why did you say that?” John fought to restore his mind to working order, tried to sound far less confused than he was. His mind whirled with questions, the first instinct being to demand from Sherlock exactly what he was thinking when he took the drugs.

“It’s kind of your fault,” Sherlock amended lazily. “If you weren’t you, then you wouldn’t be you, and you being you is the proximal cause for my current situation.”

“How helpful,” John muttered scathingly. His hands returned to his forehead, fingertips rubbing soft circles on his temple. “You’re even more cryptic when you’re high. Fantastic.” Fingers closed about his forearm, a thumb stroking slowly up and down. A slight crease formed on Sherlock’s forehead before quickly smoothing out. John hesitated and didn’t move, watching the play of muscles twitch in Sherlock’s face as he moved through several different emotions in rapid succession before settling into a blissful state. While heroin blanked you out, John did remember hearing something about a lack of inhibitions as a side effect.

“Your skin is soft.” Sherlock’s eyes were open, focused on where the long, pale fingers were against John’s perceptibly darker skin.

“Thank you. Sherlock, why are you touching me?” Immediately the hand dropped away and John cursed inwardly for ruining the moment. Then again, he mused ruefully, it wasn’t really a moment if Sherlock was too high to remember it.

“It doesn’t overwhelm me, like this.” Sherlock trailed his fingertips up John’s forearm towards the crook of his elbow, shifting on the sofa so he could reach farther. “I can touch you and it just feels warm. It doesn’t burn. It’s comfortable.”

“Does it normally feel like you’re burning when you touch me?” John inquired, careful to keep his voice quiet.

“No,” Sherlock mused. “Overwhelming. It feels - like Moriarty, like a loss of control. You touch me and everything spirals out of control.”

John was filing away all of this information. It felt dirty, in a way, dishonest, to pry information out of his drugged flatmate. But he didn’t have a choice. “Why did you shut me out of the taxi?”

Sherlock hummed slowly, extending the syllable for several seconds. He seemed to lose his train of thought and fell silent instead. John watched him breathe, comforted by the rise and fall of his chest, yet still unnerved by the events of the day. A long hand slid out and gently grasped John’s, twining the fingers together without an ounce of self-consciousness and leaving the hands on the solid warmth of John’s thigh.

John felt Sherlock stroke his thumb over John’s hand, a whisper of a caress that he had felt a few times before. Somehow it made it special, something new that he had never experienced. He could feel his stomach twist into knots, like a schoolboy with his first crush. Sherlock’s breathing slowly evened out and the motion stopped. Sherlock had fallen asleep. John looked down at their linked hands, uncertain, but did not break their connection. He made himself comfortable in his chair, as comfortable as he could be, suddenly tired.

Sherlock, as a person, was so tenuous, so fragile; as breakable as the connection slowly growing between them. John could not deny its existence despite the fact that taking care of it, helping it grow, would likely be the most difficult task he would face in his lifetime. Was it worth it? John had an idea that the question would be one he would repeat often throughout his time with Sherlock.

There would be many questions. Some he would get answers to. John would be careful, more modulated in how he came into contact with Sherlock. Any and everything to ease the other man’s discomfort. Some questions, he suspected, he would never get an answer to. Sherlock was a man with many facets, and some he shared with no one. John had seen more than others, had seen some of the vulnerable, emotional sides that Sherlock rarely showed. He was not delusional enough to think that Sherlock would share everything with him. Maybe someday, but that day was a long way in coming.

John would be there. It was a decision, he thought ruefully, that had been made long ago. No matter what, Sherlock needed him and, he reluctantly admitted, he needed Sherlock. He lifted the twined hands and pressed the gentlest of kisses upon Sherlock’s knuckles, more for his reassurance than Sherlock’s. Closing his eyes, John settled down to wait until Sherlock woke up. He doubted it would be long.

When John woke up, he felt oddly alone. The hand that had been linked with Sherlock’s was instead resting by itself on his thigh, unaccompanied. He stirred, blinking the fuzziness out of his vision and looked around. The first thing he noted was that he was covered by a blanket that had not been there prior. The second was that Sherlock was no longer on the sofa. Instead he was perched on a chair in front of the table, his eyes glued to the microscope in front of him.

There was something different this time, however. Where before his movements had been strong and graceful, this time his hands shook as he adjusted the stage’s height and a few drops of the pipette’s contents landed on the table while he was attempting to transfer them. His head lifted the slightest amount and his eyes flickered over to where John was sitting, the chair angled to allow Sherlock unblocked access to where John was sleeping. The movement had been practiced, and the slight widening of Sherlock’s eyes was enough to convince John that Sherlock had not noticed that he was awake until that moment.

“Hi,” he said finally, uncertain what to say. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the doctor and back down to the equipment in front of him, although his lips turned into a sneer. John had the oddest feeling that the sneer was not directed towards him, but instead towards Sherlock himself. Pushing himself up into a sitting position that put less of a strain on his back, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, pleased when there was no lingering visual distractions. “How long have you been awake?”

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, then winced at the movement. John ran through the list of symptoms of heroin withdrawal in his mind and brought a few things together. Sherlock was sore, then, thus the wincing, and the shakes were likely because he had been sitting in the same place for too long. Nausea was another possibility, as was pain from the stomach cramps. If Sherlock had gone into withdrawal, then John had been asleep for quite some time.

“Do we have a thermometer?” he mused out loud, clumsily rising to his feet and working his way towards the kitchen. He wasn’t limping bad enough to require assistance, but there was a hitch to his step that bothered him. John had thought the limp had faded completely, but it seemed not to be the case. Quietly he rummaged through various drawers until he discovered what he was looking for. Next was the hard part - getting Sherlock to put up with it.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, not looking up. John walked closer anyway, the thermometer clutched in his hand. He froze immediately when he saw Sherlock tense as he came closer. Instead John chose to settle in a chair next to Sherlock’s microscope, ignoring the various beakers in front of him.

“I just want to make sure you’re not feverish and that the shakes have a different cause,” John replied patiently. He was proud of his coherency; it meant his brain was doing something correctly.

“And I said no.”

“Sherlock,” John growled, and then stopped when he saw Sherlock’s flinch. Fuck. He had forgotten. “Please, Sherlock. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why?” Sherlock had stopped fiddling with the lab equipment, although he had not raised his head in John’s direction and chose to stare at the table instead. “I’ve disappointed you. Why are you still here? Why did you stay?”

“Because I don’t have a choice,” John said gently. Sherlock’s snort was legendary, and John half regretted the inability to record it for later posterity. “Sherlock, you said you needed me. I need you like you need me.”

“I was obviously incorrect.” Pointedly avoiding John, Sherlock stood and walked over to the sofa, throwing himself down on it and curling up in a ball. He looked miserable from the back, sweat making his curls cling damply to his head, body hunched into its curved posture, likely trying to stave off pain and protect himself from acquiring any new.

Quietly John moved around the kitchen, pulling down two mugs and some tea bags. The kettle was flipped on and water was boiled, then poured into the two mugs to steep the tea to the desired level. While the tea was finishing John went and got some towels, ripping them into strips and placing them in some cold water. He could place one on Sherlock’s forehead to help cool him down. Provided it didn’t get ripped off and thrown at him.

After he tossed the used tea bags into the rubbish bin, he walked over to the sofa and gently placed a mug on the table nearest Sherlock. Setting his down on the end closest to the armchair next to the sofa, he returned to the kitchen and gently picked up one of the now-sodden strips of cloth. The problem was that Sherlock was on his side, but John would do what he could. As carefully as he was able, John lifted up some of Sherlock’s curls and placed the wet rag on Sherlock’s neck.

His forehead would have been better, but it would have been easy for Sherlock to rip the cloth off with very little effort. This way, Sherlock had to at least try. John had been careful to have as little contact with Sherlock’s bare skin as was possible, aware of the difficulties that Sherlock had mentioned in his drugged state. Then he settled in the armchair, his mug of tea on his lap, sock-clad feet propped on the edges of the coffee table in front of him as he waited to see who would crack the silence.

Sherlock’s dressing gown had been drawn so closely around him that John could see the muscles of his back and arms twitch and spasm as they sought to find the equilibrium that had been zapped from his body by the drug. It was painful for John to contemplate exactly how long he had been under the influence, and how often prior he had used it. The withdrawal symptoms were rarely that bad in someone who was using it for the first time.

“You did disappoint me, a bit. But that wasn’t what I was thinking when I came in and saw you on the floor, you know.” John’s voice was quiet, cautious. He was afraid of setting Sherlock off. He was more afraid of saying nothing and having Sherlock disappear into himself forever. It was better to risk it. “I saw you on the floor, and - god, Sherlock. My heart stopped. All I could think of - all I could think of was when you overdosed.” He shook his head slightly. Sherlock had gone completely still, although he could not stifle all of his body’s aches and twitches.

“I need you, Sherlock. When you came to my house - well, Harry’s house - you said you needed me. You were open and scared and vulnerable and you were the best thing that had ever happened to me. I don’t deserve you. Yeah, you’re a bit rough around the edges, but we all are, in our own ways.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth now, and John was only half-aware of what he was saying. He hoped it made sense and that it wasn’t going to make things worse. “I care about you, Sherlock. We never did finish the conversation about whether or not we’re in a relationship, but I want to be with you. I want to see you smile and laugh and - well, okay, laughing is a bit silly with you, but I like it when you relax, when you give that half-smile when you’ve done something particularly clever.”

“I like all of that about you, you silly berk.” John sighed slowly, trying to gather the last few threads of where he had been going. “Yeah, you stepped off and did something I was hoping you wouldn’t. But you didn’t run away. When I woke up, you were here. And you came here to take your drugs. You didn’t go hide somewhere.” He shifted in the chair, watching Sherlock’s sharp inhalation of breath. “Sherlock, you’re the most brilliant man I know. You’re amazing and although you can be a bit dense sometimes, you put up with me and that says more than enough in my book.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock muttered, and John could see the barest crinkling of his nose. He had not removed the cold cloth on his neck, nor had he thrown it at John, and he wasn’t saying anything bad.

“Yeah. Sentiment. That’s kind of what a relationship is based off of. Look. You’re mad at me because you think I’m mad at you, right?” John searched Sherlock’s face and body language for any sign of agreement. He wasn’t certain how much verbal encouragement Sherlock would give. There. Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, and John plunged forward. “I’m not mad at you. I just want to help you.”

Sherlock mumbled something that John didn’t catch. “What was that?” he asked quietly, gently. Sherlock mumbled it again and John waited patiently.

“I can’t give you what you want.” Sherlock’s voice was scathing, directed inward instead of outward.

“Are you sure about that?” John asked, an idea coming into his mind. “What do you think I want?”

“I can’t even touch you without my bloody transport thinking you are someone you are not! How can you possibly be content with something like that?” Sherlock snarled at the back of the sofa.

“Here. Can I help you sit up?” John’s hands hovered cautiously over his flatmate, gentle in their urging. He removed the cool cloth from Sherlock’s neck and tossed it back into the kitchen, not caring where it landed. John turned back in time to see a corner of Sherlock’s lips quirk up in the faintest hint of amusement. “Yeah, I know. You’re the only one allowed to treat the kitchen like that,” he said playfully.

“I am quite a bad influence,” Sherlock admitted, his tone no longer the defeated snarl it had been. Still dark, but there was a lighter undertone. He allowed John to help him sit up, settling near the edge of sofa.

“Now,” John said, figuring out how what he wanted would work out. It was times like these that he quite despaired the height disparity between the two. Trying to work around Sherlock feeling caged in close proximities was a difficulty as well. Ignoring the black look Sherlock sent him, John sat on the arm of the sofa closest to his flatmate. There was enough space to not startle him, and the sofa didn’t creak too alarmingly underneath John’s weight. Mycroft had picked a sturdy one, then. Probably the best for his younger brother, after all.

“I want you to keep your eyes open, yeah?” John’s voice was soft, his eyes latched onto Sherlock’s. Despite what the taller man had said, his pupils had started to dilate and his breathing had sped up. John was rather close, after all, and he could feel his body respond. “We’re going to try this once again.” He could see Sherlock’s confusion for a brief second and then the startlingly clear eyes flickered down to John’s lips, clearly having deduced his intentions.

John hesitated briefly, keeping his eyes open as he leaned forward, checking Sherlock’s reaction before closing the space between them and pressing his lips to his flatmate’s. His hands came to rest carefully on Sherlock’s upper arms, and he could feel Sherlock tense underneath him, could feel him start to recoil. But Sherlock stopped himself, and John just kissed him gently, little brushes of mouth against mouth, sensual at the same time it was comforting.

Then he felt something change, felt a hand on his thigh and one on the other side of him as Sherlock pressed himself up, matching John in the kiss. Lips parted and John’s tongue was granted access to Sherlock’s mouth as the taller man took his hand off of John’s thigh and wrapped it around his head. John’s eyes fluttered shut, and he forced them back open. The intensity of the eye contact left him dazed, like fireworks had exploded in his head. Sherlock’s pupils were so wide that he had eliminated nearly all of the colour.

John was pushed off of the sofa and against the wall, never breaking eye contact nor removing his mouth from his flatmate’s. Tongues fought for dominance, the kiss hard and gentle in turns. John’s mind spun, and he was certain that he had never been kissed with that amount of skill before. He could barely think. Sherlock’s hand cradled John’s head, fingers twining into the soft hair near his neck to tug him slightly so that Sherlock could have better access.

John could feel an erection pressed against him, matching the one growing in his trousers, and he knew things had gone too far. No matter what he wanted, Sherlock needed to go slow. He couldn’t risk going too fast and having the curly-haired man break like fragile china. Gasping he pulled away, shaking his head when Sherlock attempted to reconnect their mouths and ignoring the growl. “Stop,” he breathed, hands balling into fists. “Stop, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled back, his mouth red and slick from the searing kisses. He seemed affronted, and John sighed. Of course Sherlock would take it as a personal affront, take it as John not wanting him instead of the real reason. John took a few moments to think about what he wanted to say. That was the far better option with Sherlock than just saying the first thing that came to his mind. “I want it to be good for you. So we have to take it slow. I don’t - I don’t want to go too fast and end up with something going wrong and me hurting you.” Sherlock made a disparaging noise.

“I’m not a fragile flower, John,” he muttered.

“You do a good impression at times,” John said softly, trying to convey the depth of his meaning with his eyes. There was little he would like more than to just snog the man into oblivion, but what they had shared had gone long past what he had planned. Inwardly he winced; wrong train of thought if he wanted to calm his erection. Sherlock snorted. “Hey, none of that.” Carefully he stepped forward, telegraphing his motions before continuing them out. He drew Sherlock into his arms, feeling the man tense briefly and then allow a reluctant calm to settle him against John.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said finally, the words sounding clumsy and long-unused on his tongue. John blinked, startled, and felt a cautious arm wrap about his hips. He had expected tolerance, not reciprocation, but there the arm was, warm and snug against his lower back.

“For what?” John prompted. Normally he would be kissing more, or touching, or something else, but he felt he had pushed his luck far enough for the day.

Sherlock was quiet for so long that John feared he had ignored the question. “For being you.” Hesitantly he leaned down and gently kissed John’s forehead. “I need to think. Please stay here.”

“Stay here? Like in this spot?” Because if John had to stay where he was for the next however long Sherlock had to think, Sherlock was going to be disappointed. Then John’s mind caught up. “Please and thank you from you in the same day? Have you been practicing?” That earned him a black look, which was well worth it, and John smiled in response.

“Just stay here.” Sherlock gestured to the living room. “In 221B.”

“Alright,” John said agreeably. Sherlock offered a small, hesitant smile and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door cracked. Not in invitation, John was certain, but so he could see John in the living area and moving about the flat. John shifted his armchair discretely so that it was easy to see from the sliver of the doorway and then grabbed his book and settled down. Sherlock needed space, and time to think, and John was going to give him all he needed. It was worth it, after all.


	3. No Need to Medicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait! Thank you all for being lovely and waiting so patiently until I could get my life back under control. :)

It was one of the hardest things Sherlock had ever done, closing the door behind him. He left it part way open, so he could see John from his bed, see that he was there, that he had not left. It was like a security blanket, but a visual one. It kept the crawling, itching feeling from becoming overwhelming, from threatening to consume him. Sherlock was not self-conscious, so he changed into his pyjamas without bothering to close the door. Part of him wondered what John thought of him, seeing the various scars and marks that dotted the skin that were often hidden by his clothes. Moriarty had left some of them, his prior lifestyle the rest. A few were garnered from various trips he had been sent on by Mycroft. The army doctor had gotten a good look when he had been providing Sherlock’s medical care, but beyond chiding Sherlock for the self-inflicted wounds, he had said nothing.

Sherlock eyed the bed distastefully before sitting on it, dressed in loose cotton trousers and a soft tee shirt. With a quiet sigh he laid down, fingers clasping underneath his chin as he stared moodily at the ceiling. John. It was time to turn his mind to the problem of John. There was no doubt that John cared, that John was unusually attached to him. There was also no doubt that Sherlock needed to figure out some way to tolerate more of John’s touch, to reciprocate. To give John what he deserved.

“I can hear you thinking in there,” John said quietly, his voice just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of John’s eyes, and John sighed. “Sherlock, really…”

Sherlock tuned him out, turned his gaze back to the ceiling. He needed no distractions, for things in his head were already confusing enough. There were feelings, emotions, all mixing together in ways he did not understand. His body craved the heroin he had taken earlier, craved the simplest solution that would allow him to filter through all of the clutter to find the answer. His skin felt like it was on fire, like there were ants crawling just underneath. It was overwhelming, confusing, distracting. Not that he felt that drugs would likely solve the issues inherent in their relationship, the baggage that Sherlock brought to the table. John would disapprove, and that would create conflict. Relationships were rarely that simple, rarely that easy to fix, and Sherlock discarded the idea with a small flick of his fingers.

John had insinuated that he was satisfied with what Sherlock could give, and that was what Sherlock could not figure out. To doubt John’s assumptions would be to doubt John himself, and Sherlock could think of no one more caring or trustworthy. John had not lied, John had not mistreated him, had not grabbed him, had not hurt him. That could not be said for the majority of other people he had known throughout his lifetime. Sherlock distrusted the world as a whole, except for this one man, who had attempted to make his way through all of Sherlock’s defenses. What was worse was that Sherlock was not certain that he was going to stop John. That he wanted to stop him. It felt - oddly nice, knowing that someone was there with him. Even if Sherlock didn’t deserve him.

Was the military doctor truly satisfied going slowly? Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. It wouldn’t make sense. John was a sexual man, he had needs, he had urges. Sherlock was - no. He shook his head, discarding that. He would be able to take care of John, to be what John needed. There was no if, ands, or buts. Sherlock had never been very interested in sex, never been very interested in bodies and what they did. He was certain it would be different. It had to be. There was no other option.

“John?” Sherlock sat up, and walked to the door, cracking it open.

John looked at him, inquiring. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the clock, and he was startled to see that he had been in his room nearly two hours. He had not thought nearly enough to justify such an extravagant waste of his time. “Yes?”

Sherlock stood in the doorway, his hand still clasped around the knob. He wanted to ask John to come into his room with him, into his bed, to hold Sherlock until the world stopped spinning, until he no longer felt like his skin was peeling. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It was selfish, asking for something like that. Wasn’t it? Was asking for something just for his comfort something that was okay in a relationship? Sherlock hated asking questions, hated having to puzzle out the simplest things. Unfortunately, sufficient resources for understanding human behaviour were sorely lacking, and the internet was not an acceptable substitute.

John stood and walked over. “If you don’t tell me what you need, I can’t help you.” His voice was soft, honest, and Sherlock wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him. But he couldn’t make him say the words. Not yet. Instead, Sherlock took John’s hand and tugged him inside.

He wasn’t tired, not after sleeping so long. John probably wasn’t either, having napped while Sherlock was strung out, caught up on sleep when he was able to. Sherlock figured it was a military habit, born from long hours of snatching sleep while he could, valuing even the smallest amount. Assessing John’s wardrobe, Sherlock frowned at the jeans, at the jumper, and impatiently tugged them off. John helped, once he realized what Sherlock was going for, and finally stood there, in his pants and a loose shirt.

John watched him patiently, and Sherlock could feel how his guard was down, how he trusted him. It was odd, it was scary. Sherlock was rarely the one with any kind of power in any sort of relationship. Maybe in the business he had conducted with his clients, but that was part of the deal, him assuming that role. He had never genuinely been given the power to lead. “Lay down on the bed.”

John opened his mouth as if to protest, and Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, challenging. Sighing, John obliged, propping his head up on the pillows and laying with his arms down at the side. Sherlock eyed him, somewhat wary. People really did this sort of thing on a daily basis? Wasn’t it awkward, having someone just lay there and watch you? Sherlock crawled onto the bed next to John, looking him up and down, considering what he wanted to do. There were faint spots of colour on John’s cheeks, and as Sherlock turned to face him more fully, John turned to stare at the ceiling.

Carefully Sherlock laid down, his head on John’s shoulder, his body half-draped over the military doctor’s. He tucked his head in the crook of John’s neck, breathing in John’s scent, reassured by the thrum of John’s pulse in his jugular vein. A leg slotted easily between John’s, so they were connected from head to his toe.

“I thought this bothered you,” John murmured, an arm instinctively draping over Sherlock’s back.

“It does.” Sherlock closed his eyes, cataloging the sensations, the feelings. There was an uncomfortable prickly feeling, where John’s skin touched his, as if it was alive, electric - burning. That kind of thing - cuddling, lying with a partner - was not something Sherlock had done prior to meeting John. His previous partners had not been interested in anything of the sort, especially once it became apparent that Sherlock regarded it as boring. Those who were attempting to hold onto his attentions dropped it rather quickly. It was different, with John. There was an overwhelming warmth, a comfort from having John so close, from being held, from being cared for.

John apparently decided that questioning was not advantageous in this situation and fell quiet, pressing the occasional kiss to Sherlock’s curly hair, seeming to revel in the heat of Sherlock’s body on his. It was very similar to their prior encounter, similar to how they fit so well together. “I need to get a job,” John told him quietly.

“No, you don’t. I can support us,” Sherlock said staunchly.

John was quiet for a few moments. “Your UA will not be clean for another day or two, Sherlock.”

“That isn’t paid work, anyway,” Sherlock muttered petulantly.

“Then how did you expect for pay for this?”

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, your brother isn’t going to bail you out of everything.”

Sherlock snorted against John’s chest, and John relented. “Well, maybe close to everything. But I think I could convince him otherwise on this.”

“I have a trust fund,” Sherlock said quietly, eyes half-closed. “Mycroft controls it as of now, but he has allocated enough money to cover food and rent, in addition to any living expenses we may need.”

John was silent for a few moments, and Sherlock felt him tense. “I don’t - I want - I have to pay something, Sherlock. I can’t let you take care of me.”

“I want to,” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock.”

The taller man lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “You don’t want to be around me,” he accused.

John sighed, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I want to be with you, but if I stay around you all the time, I’m going to kill you.”

“That isn’t very partner-like,” Sherlock muttered petulantly, allowing his head to fall back to John’s chest, to revel in the strong heartbeat under his fingers, under his body. It was better than he had been expecting, staying close to John. The confusion had started to lessen, being replaced by something unsettling at the same time it made him want to cling to John forever. It felt like things were glowing, that the world was suddenly much more positive. It was quite disconcerting.

“Is that what we are, then?” John’s quiet voice broke the comfortable silence that had fallen.

Sherlock fidgeted, his fingers moving slightly against John’s chest. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I’m not going to pressure you,” John said firmly. “If you need time to think, I’m going to give it to you. If our relationship is going to work, Sherlock, it’s going to have to be an equal partnership. You’re going to have to tell me when something’s wrong. I can’t read your mind like you think you can read mine.”

“I can read yours.” Sherlock hmphed, flattening his hand on John’s chest.

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” John huffed. “It won’t be much, Sherlock. Maybe two half-days a week to start with. If you start working with DI Lestrade, you will have that as a distraction while I’m gone. And you have your experiments.”

A wave of vulnerability swept over Sherlock, something he was not at peace with and wanted to go away. He wanted to burrow into John, to hold him close, to keep him forever. A selfish urge, yes, but there was a part of Sherlock that was afraid if he let John out of his sight, he would never see him again. It was an irrational feeling, one Sherlock did not appreciate, but one he was unable to separate himself from. “Two days,” Sherlock said quietly.

John paused, obviously thinking over what Sherlock had said, trying to deduce the meaning. He waited for the doctor to understand. “For the test?”

“Very good,” Sherlock answered, pleased. John chuckled, kissing Sherlock’s head.

The two lapsed into silence again, content for the time being. Eventually John fell asleep, his breathing evening out, an arm still curled possessively about Sherlock, keeping him close. Sherlock laid with him for a while, listening to him breathe, watching the rise and fall of his chest, trying to memorise all of the small details that made John who he was. There was an inexhaustible list, and Sherlock often found that he discovered something new each time he was around the army doctor.

Sherlock was not aware that he had fallen asleep until John stirred, dragging Sherlock into wakefulness with him. Both men lay there, completely entangled in each other, unwilling to break the contact, destroy the illusion that they were protected from harsh reality. John’s stomach rumbled, and Sherlock let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re hungry, John? How banal.” Sherlock let a slight grin onto his face.

John rolled his eyes, amused. “Don’t you have an experiment to be checking on?”

“The thumbs!” Immediately Sherlock threw himself out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown from the floor and pulling it on, heading towards the kitchen. He heard John follow, stopping to pick up his clothes before heading upstairs to his own room to fetch his dressing gown. John proceeded to come downstairs, invading the kitchen and Sherlock’s personal space.

Sherlock was so engrossed in measuring the decomposition of the thumbs in relation to the fungus in the Petri dishes that he barely noticed the steaming mug of tea John placed in front of him. "Drink it," John said softly, walking out of the kitchen and settling in his armchair with his laptop on his lap. Sherlock scowled at the drink as if it had personally offended him, but picked it up and took a sip. He was satisfied to note that John had made it perfectly. “My first shift at the surgery is today.”

Putting the mug down on the table so quickly that it splashed over the sides, Sherlock growled in frustration as some of the tea got on his research papers. Of course John had already gotten a job. Hadn’t said anything. How? How had Sherlock missed it? “Sherlock,” John said patiently, and Sherlock heard him put his laptop to the side and walk over. The taller man ignored him, using the remnants of his research notes to scrub at the tea stain. Not that he had ever cleaned anything in his life, so all he did was proceed to further smear the tea into the table. “Here, let me get that.” Sherlock stood and stepped away from John and towards the sofa.

He threw himself down onto the sofa, laying there and staring at the ceiling. If he inhaled deeply, he thought he could still smell John’s scent, still regain some of his warmth that Sherlock was afraid of both having and losing at the same time. John carefully lifted Sherlock’s head and shoulders and settled into the sofa. Sherlock had to scoot slightly farther down, leave his feet to dangle off the edge, but it was worth it so he could rest his head on John’s lap.

Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing himself to adjust to the sensation. This was new, not something he had anticipated, and he took a deep breath. His nose twitched slightly as he identified the various scents. John’s dressing gown, John’s smell underneath it, the faint smell of sweat from the fact neither had showered after sleeping twined together. It was oddly intoxicating and comforting at the same time, and Sherlock could barely deny the fact he wanted to burrow further into John’s stomach.

John carded a hand into his curls, seemingly entranced by the way they moved under his fingers. The soft movements of his fingers through Sherlock’s hair were oddly mesmerizing, and Sherlock lay there, tolerant, allowing his thoughts to slow to a crawl as time seemed to suspend itself in midair. “It helps,” he finally murmured, his voice sounding odd in the peaceful silence.

“This?” John asked without missing a beat, his hand continuing its now familiar-motion.

“Yes.” Sherlock couldn’t deny that it was odd like this on the couch, since it was barely long enough for all of him, much less all of him plus John, but it felt right to give up some of the extra space for John. It felt like a metaphor of sorts.

John stroked a hand through his hair, comforting, and the two men sat in silence. It seemed like they had done a lot of that lately, and Sherlock found that he couldn’t object. It was better than meaningless babble, and far better than arguing. It was relaxing, made the clamour in his head slow to a crawl, to something he could manage. He wanted to make John stay, never let him leave, but at the same time he relished the thought of time with John farther away.

For one, he could solicit new body parts from the pathologist, and perform more gruesome experiments involving dissection that John would likely not approve of if he was present. Sherlock was certain that if he explained things carefully to John while he was absent that the shorter man would approve. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault if John happened to be gone during his carefully planned explanation session.

“I’ve got to go shower.” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s head before easing out from underneath him, carefully allowing Sherlock time to react before he disappeared upstairs to his room, presumably gathering things for his shower. Predictably it was minutes before he reappeared, heading into the bathroom. Sherlock watched him go before flipping onto his back and staring moodily at the ceiling.

He could check on the thumbs, but they had just been checked that morning and he suspected that the fungal growths he was testing would show no new progress until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Mycroft had refused to deliver the chemicals he wanted, but had agreed to a set of sub-standard replacements that would arrive in three or so days. Tedious.

“You could read a book, you know,” John came out of the bathroom dressed, and walked over to stroke Sherlock’s hair one more time. Sherlock scowled; had he lost that much time, just staring at the ceiling? Ridiculous. “Lestrade said that you needed to read those books before consulting with him.”

“Boring,” Sherlock muttered.

“Boring,” John agreed. “But necessary. You do want to consult, don’t you? Get your hands on a nice case, all gruesome and gory?” Sherlock looked at John, skeptical. John’s expression was innocent, and Sherlock huffed. Regardless, John walked over and picked up the books, placing them on the table next to Sherlock. “You can make fun of them as much as you would like, but you need to read them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and merely stared at John as he walked around, putting together a meal to eat (presumably for a break) and making yet another cup of tea. He was rather impressed with Mycroft’s dedication for stocking them with the everyday drink. It was high quality, too, not that Sherlock particularly cared, but it was something that he knew John would enjoy. When John brought over a mug for him he sat up to drink it, careful to not spill any of it on his dressing gown. Spilling tea on it would require tedious things like changing clothing or laundry and Sherlock was having none of it.

They sat in silence, Sherlock finishing his tea and placing the mug carelessly on the table before laying on his back and contemplating what his next steps would be. The books could wait until John had returned from work, since Sherlock was fairly certain John would be impressed by seeing him actually do the work instead of Sherlock doing it while he was gone. Besides, reading was Boring and boring things were slightly more tolerable when John was in the room.

He held out his hand. “Phone.”

There was a pause in John’s typing. “Pardon?” he asked.

“My phone is in my jacket pocket. Bring it to me.” Sherlock waggled his fingers expectantly, waiting.

Another few moments of silence, and then John stood. Sherlock heard him move around before the phone was placed in Sherlock’s hand. “Should I be leaving you alone, if you can’t move to get your own mobile?” John sounded halfway between irritated and amused, and Sherlock ignored him, typing out a quick text message to Molly letting her know that he would be on his way in approximately an hour. That was enough time for John to leave, for Sherlock to shower and change.

She seemed rather receptive to a flirtatious advance, and if that would garner him more body parts, then that was the tactic he would utilize. For now, though. Sherlock laid on the couch, alternating between staring at the ceiling and studying his - partner’s movements out of the corner of his eye. John had such varied facial expressions; Sherlock could see what he was looking at online by examining how his expressive face shifted. It was oddly fascinating.

The downside was that it showed irritation well, which when there was gurgling from the kitchen, Sherlock got a full-on look of disappointed skepticism. “It’s nothing poisonous,” he said by way of explanation.

“Is it going to explode?” John inquired politely.

“No. The refrigerator keeps it suspended so it’s not explosive.”

“Oh, good,” John muttered. “Wouldn’t want it exploding, now would we.”

“Mrs. Hudson would disapprove if I blew up the flat,” Sherlock pointed out.

“That was rhetorical.”

“Oh. You know, you really should be more clear.”

John snorted a laugh and put aside his laptop. He was checking the clock, and Sherlock averted his gaze as if he had not been paying attention the entire time. “Right, well. I’ll be back in five hours,” he promised Sherlock. “Less, if the tube’s running on time.”

Sherlock merely nodded, accepting the gentle, brief kiss John gave him with only the barest shiver. That was progress, was it not? Then again, Moriarty had never kissed him like that. On the lips, light and possessive, yes. But not tender and caring, sweet and cautious. Sherlock rather thought that was the key, finding experiences that Moriarty had never corrupted and using them to build the basis of a new relationship with John.

John gathered what he had packed and, with one final look at Sherlock on the couch, left 221B, closing the door and locking it behind him. Sherlock sprung up from the couch, ignoring the books, and quickly walked towards the bathroom. He was pleased to discover that not only was there a clean towel, but John was as obsessive compulsive as he had hoped. The bathroom was in impeccable condition, almost exactly as it had been when they arrived.

Sherlock so did like order. His shower was quick and compulsory, for unnatural smells could easily prevent the mousy Dr. Hooper from giving him what he wanted. Wrapping a small towel around his middle, he used another to dry his hair and body before wandering back to his room. It felt oddly empty without John, as if there was a puzzle piece to the room missing that Sherlock had not figured out how to replace.

It reminded him of being in Asylum that last week, with just himself in an empty, shadowed room. Opening his wardrobe, he dressed quickly, impeccably suiting up in one of his favourite suits. John would likely call him vain, but Sherlock considered it the hallmark of good character. For example, it said something of John’s personality that he had an affinity for wooly jumpers. That Sherlock’s particular desire was for something tailored reflected him as a person, and there was nothing wrong with it.

Sherlock pocketed his mobile, pulling on his Belstaff before grabbing his keys and an assortment of items. For example, one never knew when they might need matches or lockpicks. He did feel it was better to be overly prepared than to be caught unawares. Enough work with Mycroft had taught him that people would do anything they could to get at a person, whether it was through the person themselves or through someone they loved.

It was an odd ache, not having John within his sight. Sherlock’s skin felt like there were ants crawling all over, and he was oddly restless. Not in a way that he had to move, but that it felt like had to be doing something, had to do something to make everything better or to at least make the tension leave. In the past - in the past he could cut himself, could shoot up, could spin the world into oblivion. But now he had John. Even when John wasn’t there to make everything better.

Locking the door behind him, Sherlock strode down the hallway, pausing to kiss a flustered Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. “Just going out for a bit, Mrs. Hudson,” he told her.

She tittered, blushing. “You boys and your work.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the faint smile; she had always been kind to him, been a maternal figure in his life when his own mother had not done well in that department. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, he strode outside and flagged down a cab, giving the cabbie Barts’ address. It was a short ride, one Sherlock felt he was going to become intimately familiar with. Mycroft had mentioned something about a laboratory, and if John was going to be fussy about Sherlock maintaining chemicals in their flat, it was something suitable to look into as a potential replacement.

All it took was a few words and a shy, cautious smile before Molly was tripping over her feet (literally, Sherlock noted with scornful amusement) in her efforts to show him to the laboratory she used to conduct her analyses. “And, um, here is the PCR equipment, and you can access -”

“Yes, Dr. Hooper, thank you very much,” Sherlock cut her off, eyes taking in the equipment in front of him. It was a veritable treasure trove.

“You can call me Molly,” she stammered. “I’ll, um, er, have those eyeballs that you requested in an hour or two.”

“That would be acceptable.” Offering her a thin smile, Sherlock strode forward. He ran his hands over the various machines, light, teasing, feeling the metal of the microscopes and other things. It was all state of the art and lovingly maintained. For all that the pathologist was mousy and quiet, she was obviously dedicated to what she did and it showed in the care she took. She would be a useful person to consult with if he had a question about pathology in any of the cases he took under Lestrade. That was, if he could get her to stop blushing and dropping things every time he looked in her direction. Maybe he could get John to do it.

Although he recognised most of what he faced, it had been years since he had been able to use any of it. His memory was not completely eidetic, and even he was not completely immune to memories fading after years of disuse. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get intimately familiar with the various equipment he saw. Any he didn’t know, there was certainly a book somewhere he could acquire that would explain its meaning. There was also the internet, which was a far more easily accessible resource, despite the inherent frustrations that were present in Google’s inane search features.

So entranced by what he was doing, he was that he didn’t hear Molly come in the door. “Hello,” she said shyly. Adrenaline pulsed rapidly through his system and it was only luck that kept him from crushing the eyepiece he had his hand on. It was a fight to get his body back under control, to not wreck what he had spent time building - a carefully cultivated image of arrogant detachment.

Slowly he turned, careful to keep his expression guarded. She was clutching a bag in her hand, full of ice and the detached eyeballs he had asked for. “I have the eyeballs, er, that you asked for.” She thrust the bag out in his direction, and Sherlock stepped forward, taking them from her with a false smile. “Is there, um, anything else you’ll be needing?”

“No.” He turned around and strode out of the laboratory, leaving her behind with a rather confused expression, if the metallic surface of the door showed her reflection accurately. Still, he had more important things to worry about, and he pushed her from his mind. It was, however, more difficult to flag down a cabbie when he was carrying a bag full of ice and detached organs. Finally a brave one decided to stop and Sherlock got in, attempting to conceal the bag underneath his coat. It was a rather difficult attempt, however, for the bag was cold and Sherlock had little insulation by way of his tailored jacket and shirt.

Once he arrived home, he went straight upstairs, hanging up his jacket before emptying the contents of the bag into a large bowel. The ice would keep the eyeballs fresh until he figured out what to do with them. Testing decomposition was always an option

Sherlock spent a good hour measuring several different variables in multiple different spots of the flat, selecting various places to test the different decomposition rates of the eyeballs. He had found several small jars in a cupboard and he slipped two eyeballs into each, placing tape on the outside to mark the time and date. The first two went into the microwave, lid ajar to allow for air circulation.

Another pair went in the cupboard underneath the sink, a third in the fridge. The fourth went in the bathroom, tucked neatly behind John’s toothpaste. A fifth pair went in his room, to examine the difference between floors. Not that Sherlock thought John even checked the small corners of his wardrobe, anyway. The last pair went in the lounge, tucked underneath a few of Sherlock’s scraps of paper. For a second, he stood, staring about the flat. Now all he had to do was wait.

Waiting was boring.

To entertain himself for a while, he stole John’s laptop. It took him three minutes to crack the password, and only because he had to get up twice to turn the eyeballs in the lounge around because he was certain they were staring at him. Sherlock’s laptop was in his bedroom, and that was too far of a distance when John’s laptop was a mere metre away. He set up a spreadsheet to track decomposition, feeling that every six hours was a reasonable amount of time between examinations. Sneaking into John’s bedroom in the middle of the night to check decomposition was going to be a bit trickier than he potentially anticipated (he really did have an unhealthy relationship with sleep), but Sherlock was confident that if he explained it was for science, John would understand.

And if not, Sherlock could certainly find some way to distract him.

Sherlock looked up to see John staring at him with a raised eyebrow, and glanced at the clock. Oh. John was done with work, then. He turned his attention back to the laptop, putting the finishing touches on the spreadsheet. “Sherlock,” John said patiently. “Where’s your laptop?”

Sherlock flicked his fingers towards his room. “Inconvenient.”

“Didn’t we have a talk about boundaries?” John muttered, walking into the kitchen and apparently giving up the thread of conversation. Not that Sherlock minded, for he was obviously in the right. John just liked to be irrational about things like boundaries. Or was this a Couple thing that Sherlock didn’t know about?

“I didn’t ‘snoop’, if that is what you were concerned about,” Sherlock said. He quickly saved the spreadsheet, logged into John’s email, and sent it to himself. That way if John did something annoying like hide his laptop, Sherlock would be able to access the spreadsheet without having to redesign it. He examined John critically, gauging his mood. He didn’t seem offended - more resigned. Sherlock couldn’t deny that he was pleased to see John back in their flat, where he belonged, and the sizzling under his skin was a low simmer instead of a roar. “Hello,” he offered.

John started, blinking a bit, before his lips curled into a light smile. “Hello,” he replied, coming over to gently press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He cupped Sherlock’s face with a hand, lips moving softly against Sherlock’s for a few moments before pulling back. Sherlock whined in disappointment, a scowl curving his mouth into a pout. “Later,” John promised, walking towards the kitchen.

Tea, Sherlock thought with a vague flash of irritation. It was always tea. He was far more interesting than tea, no matter how culturally ingrained it was into John to have it at every occasion. Besides, Sherlock would rather have John, not tea. “You’re supposed to ask how work went, you know,” John told Sherlock, seemingly amused. Sherlock took the mug that John was offering, cocking his head to the side.

“Am I?” Sipping it, Sherlock sighed. He had never met anyone better at making tea than John. It was one of the reasons Sherlock kept him around.

“Yes,” John said softly, taking a long drink of his tea once it had cooled enough to not burn his tongue. The two fell into a comfortable silence, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock was fidgeting in his chair. John stared at him pointedly.

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. “Was your job...tolerable?” he tried.

John chuckled. “The GP I work under, her name’s Sarah. She’s rather nice, good doctor, personable.” He leaned forward. “How about we make it a game?”

Sherlock looked skeptical, staring at John as if he was a slightly interesting bacteria. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you love puzzles. I tell you symptoms, you tell me what it is.” John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s giant pile of medical books, books he knew that Sherlock had read many times.

Sherlock paused, and then grinned, delighted. “The game, Dr. Watson, is on.”

They passed several hours that way, Sherlock able to correctly guess the illness in all but two of John’s patients for the day and the treatment regimen in three quarters of them. Once Sherlock had exhausted John’s list of patients from his day at the clinic, John drew from his time in the army, testing and pushing Sherlock’s knowledge of how to handle combat-related wounds.

“Good,” John said, delighted, and that earned Sherlock another kiss. Sherlock kept his eyes open, watching John’s every movement. Each brush of the lips, each flicker of the tongue, reminded Sherlock that this was not Moriarty, that he wasn’t tied up, held hostage. This was John, and he was with John because he wanted to be, not because he had no other choice. That made a difference, and he knew that. He just hadn’t realized how much of a difference it made.

John got up to busy himself with something pesky, like dinner. Sherlock didn’t get why John had to eat so much. One meal a day was more than enough, everything else was boring. He stalked over to the window, where Mycroft had been kind enough to leave his violin, and picked it up, running his hands lovingly over the wood. John sometimes joked about what Sherlock did with the instrument, plucking odd noises and screeching, but Sherlock would never do anything intentionally to harm his prized possession.

If it could talk, Sherlock would be interested in hearing its stories. The violin had been with him most of his life, a precious gift from a family member he could barely remember beyond a gentle smile and fond touch. It was a part of his life that was behind him, that no longer mattered. Settling the violin underneath his chin, he picked up the well-cared for bow and started to play. He didn’t really pay attention to what he was playing, just let the bow slide over the strings, fingers moving in well-practiced motions as the melody emerged.

It took Sherlock a few moments to realize what he was playing, and although his mind hesitated, he did not stop. It was an original composition, one he had written long ago, when he was a young teenager, not long before things had turned for the worse. He only vaguely remembered those days, remembered when he smiled, when he had not been afraid to venture outside. It was the tune he had played at his grandmother’s funeral. She was the one who had taught him how to play.

While his Mother had rarely been around, his grandmother had stayed behind. It was unusual, in their social circle, but that’s what had happened. Sherlock grew closer to her, for she was similar to him, seeing everything in everyone that walked by. She would explain his deductions, help him figure out what he saw. She was a constant in his life, someone that was more reliable than even Mycroft. Mycroft, who cared but who was busy being caught up in his own life, his own responsibilities.

“Sherlock?” John’s somewhat worried voice broke into Sherlock’s concentration, and he glanced over at his - partner. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock blinked, taking in the creases in John’s face, the worry, the affection. It made him feel odd, something prickly in his stomach that he wasn’t fond of. Suppressing the feeling, he shrugged, the bow paused in midair. “Yes.” He turned back away from John and continued to allow the bow to move, his entire body flowing with the movement, as the music lifted him up and took him away from where he was, back to a life where things were less complicated and he did not have to worry.

Some argued that music was magic, and although Sherlock would argue that it was ludicrous, he could not deny that there was something about the tune that reminded him of things long ago. Once the piece finished, he turned to see John watching him, sitting in his own armchair, a mostly empty cup of tea in his hands. “My grandmother.” Sherlock’s words were slow, halting, and he noticed with some sense of - gratitude? that he had John’s full attention. “I composed this for her, years ago. I played it at her funeral.”

“You must have been very close,” John murmured. Sherlock struggled to deduce what he meant, what the feelings were behind his words. They sounded almost like pity, like an apology, but there was something underneath it - sympathy? Understanding? It was difficult for Sherlock to dissolve the complex knot of emotion that gripped him, difficult to pick out each partial emotion that made up the whole.

Sherlock shrugged, a lithe ripple, dismissive. “Perhaps.” Again silence fell, except this time Sherlock was not certain how to dissolve it. He didn’t want to play anymore, the magic of his violin broken. The crawling sensation had returned, and Sherlock stored it away, yet another clue in determining how he reacted to different stimuli. It was odd, having situations where he felt lost.

John walked over, into Sherlock’s space, and Sherlock had to fight the instinct to take a step back, to take himself out of John’s reach. He practically vibrated as John carefully removed the violin and bow from his hands, and he noticed with a flash of irritation that he was shaking. Nerves? Anticipation? Trepidation? He couldn’t tell. “Are you going to sleep tonight?” John asked quietly, brushing a curl out of Sherlock’s face.

“No,” Sherlock answered easily. Sleep was boring. He was tired of boring. He would find something more interesting to do, like bother Mycroft until he delivered that stash of chemicals he had been promising. Certainly his assistant had nothing better to do at 3am. That way John would be none the wiser. Sherlock certainly felt that was a good idea. John would get quite fussy over Sherlock acquiring hydrochloric acid, for example. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that it could easily eat through their furniture. Furniture was replaceable.

“Come to bed with me.” John’s voice startled Sherlock, and he stared at him, eyes narrowing as he attempted to deduce John’s intentions. There wasn’t much hidden, for John was showing what he thought, on his face. “Not - not like that, Sherlock. I’m not - we’re not ready for that, yet. but I’d like to at least have you in the room.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side. He wanted the violin back, wanted something to do with his hands so the absolutely ridiculous urge to grab John and throw him to the floor and claim him forever would go away.

“I got used to you sleeping in my room, in Asylum,” John answered with a shrug. “You can even just lay on top of the duvet, if you want. You don’t have to stay long.” He paused. “You don’t even have to come at all, if you’re busy with an experiment.”

Sherlock thought about it for a few moments, and then his mind flashed to the eyeballs hidden in John’s wardrobe and the fact that he could check them in John’s bedroom once he was asleep, therefore not intruding upon John’s room and disturbing him while he was sleeping. It was a win win scenario, made even better by the fact that John didn’t know it existed. “Okay.” Once that was accomplished and his notes recorded, he supposed he could tackle the books Lestrade had assigned him. They would, of course, be simple for his astute mind, but he felt that committing at least the basics of police investigation to memory would be useful.

After all, how was one to command their lackeys if they did not know what to expect of the simpletons? It was obviously the benevolent thing to do, and Sherlock felt that they should be honoured, with him being so gracious and considerate. He had a feeling they would be rather hard worked, with Lestrade as a task master. “Do you want to change into pyjamas, maybe?” John asked, looking at Sherlock’s suit with a skeptical expression.

Sherlock did have to concede that sleeping in a suit would be rather impractical, so instead of answering he disappeared back into his room. Although his treatment of science was rather haphazard, his clothing was meticulously maintained, the suit carefully hung up in its spot in the wardrobe before he changed into the proper pyjamas for sleeping in. Wrapping his dressing gown around him - tattered blue cotton, brought from Asylum, comfortable - he stepped back out into the lounge.

“Up here,” John called from his bedroom. Sherlock stared for a few moments at the bottom steps, hiding his anxiety, before quickly walking up, not bothering to tie the dressing gown. He was certain it would come off the moment John got settled, so why bother. John was dressed similar to Sherlock, a tee and boxers compared to Sherlock’s cotton trousers, but comfy nonetheless and obviously designed for sleep.

He didn’t look at Sherlock was he slipped underneath the duvet, a hint of pink in his cheeks indicating an embarrassment that even Sherlock could pick up. The taller man sat on the edge of the bed, watching John curiously. “This bothers you,” he pointed out, although he couldn’t say conclusively exactly what bothered John.

“Just a bit nervous, is all,” John answered with a shrug. “You remember my nightmares, yeah?”

Sherlock snorted. “If you’re insinuating that I can’t fight you off if you happen to have a nightmare…”

“I’ve killed people, Sherlock.” John’s voice and face were grim, as if he was regretting his decision already. Maybe he was. “It’s not pretty, most nights. I don’t want you in here if you’re planning to stay all night. Not yet.”

Sherlock was a genius, although even he had to admit that emotions were not his strong point. However, he was fairly sure that someone’s voice was not supposed to say ‘don’t stay’ while their eyes begged ‘don’t leave me’. Conflict like that was contradictory, and if people did it often, there was no wonder as to how they continued meandering about in their confused, lonely existence. “Alright,” Sherlock agreed. There were enough potential loopholes in that statement (Sherlock might not plan to stay the whole night, but if it just happened, he couldn’t be held accountable, now could he?) to keep him content, but he could not deny the fact that he felt nervous as he crawled on top of the duvet.

The easy, comfortable intimacy that had been present when they twined together on the couch was gone now, and in its place was its cousin, Awkward. John chuckled ruefully. “I didn’t think it would be this bad,” he murmured.

“Awkward, yes.” Sherlock shifted closer, although he lifted his head, staring at the ceiling. Staying the whole night would likely kill him of boredom, at the rate things were going, so really, John attacking him during a nightmare would at least be something entertaining. Even if he would be unhappy with the results later. Sighing, he laid down on the bed next to John, fingers interlocked behind his head and one of his elbows poking John’s ear.

They laid in quiet for a few moments longer, Sherlock staring at the ceiling and tracing the pattern of a rather interesting crack that he would have to analyse later when he had more time. “Stay there,” John murmured, and Sherlock lifted his head to look at the shorter man. John crawled out from underneath the duvet and settled on top of it, and he was eyeing Sherlock with a nervous look that Sherlock had to admit he wasn’t especially fond of.

John scooted closer to Sherlock, until he carefully draped himself over Sherlock’s side, snuggling up until his head was in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and his arm was wrapped over Sherlock’s abdomen. Cautiously Sherlock moved his arms, draping one over John’s back and resting the other on his stomach. John had his eyes open, but he was looking at Sherlock’s neck, and not at Sherlock. It was like he was embarrassed, too scared of rejection to be able to look Sherlock in the face.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, wasn’t sure what it was supposed to feel like, having John all cuddled up next to him. There was warmth and security, something that made him want to cling to the smaller man and hold on to him for all he was worth. There was - fondness, maybe? It was something bright and sparkly, something that made Sherlock want to run for the hills. Every time he thought about it his chest flared and a smile threatened to break out on his face. He didn’t like it.

“Yes,” John answered softly, and Sherlock could feel his body relax, could feel the tension start to leave. It was worth it, the initial awkwardness, the way Sherlock still felt a bit silly, having someone else snuggled up to him. It was comforting, yes, in a primal way, but neither man seemed to be getting any sort of gratification from it (Sherlock certainly wasn’t), so he didn’t exactly see the point of it.

Still, if John was comfortable, Sherlock was not going to protest. John needed uninterrupted, comfortable sleep more than Sherlock did. If that meant Sherlock was stuck here all night so John could sleep holding onto him like a big fluffy teddy, then Sherlock would deal.

Or he would go insane.

Really, he wasn’t sure if there were any more options. He had a feeling that John would argue the latter choice impossible, especially once he found the eyeballs. The eyeballs. Sherlock’s mind jumped back a few hours, realizing that it would be difficult to check on the eyeballs if he had a permanent attachment of sorts. However, from what he could remember from the readings he had done long ago on REM sleep, he would be able to sneak out of the bed (and possibly return, if he felt so inclined) without John noticing once he had entered the proper stage of sleep.

Yes, Sherlock decided. He would monitor John’s stages of sleep and remove himself when it was most advantageous. But it wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for just a few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is currently semi-hiatused, with updates expected probably no more than once a month. I'm trying to finish up some other projects.
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to message me at my tumblr (which is linked above).
> 
> This is not abandoned, and will be finished, it's just a matter of when. Thanks for your patience!


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